My first day at the “Registan LC” in Tashkent felt like stepping onto a tight rope. I had agreed to teach a mixed-age math class (6 to 14) armed only with colorful worksheets, a handful of markers. Among curious faces, she sat at the back with an empty notebook and tired eyes. Her name was Nilufar, 12 years old, and according to rumors she once loved math her brother coached her until a family crisis pulled her out of her lovely learnig center where were her friends to my group I was teaching. She was so smart and understood better than my other students, but she lost interest to math because of depression and loneliness and her performance went down. In week 1, I skipped the formulas and handed out a treasure map. Each coordinate solved correctly led students to hidden "gold" stickers taped under desks. The room lit up with laughter, and for the first time, Nilufar looked up with a little interest. Week 2: I gave to every student "Math mystery" (interresting math questions wrapped in papers) like balancing water for a village, who wins races falcons against the wind etc. Nilufar stopped at a quadratic puzzle. I approached her and said: "Imagine your brother cheering." She wrote the answer firstly amoung groupmates and the class erupted in applause. There were days when Nilufar seemed isolated. She sat at the last desk, rarely looked up, and her math notebook remained almost empty. I felt that it wasn't a lack of ability, but something else. Several times I saw her standing at the window and looking sadly outside. One day, when everyone had already left, I approached to her and asked "Gulnara, do you have a minute?" She nodded. We sat down at the desk. I began, - I noticed that you're having a hard time in math class,but it seems to me that you're not just worried about numbers. - I miss my old school, - she said softly. - Everything worked out for me there. And now... everything is different. And math, too. - I understand. Changing schools is always difficult. It's like starting a new game with different rules, right? But math, you know, it's the same everywhere. It's like a universal language. We began to sort out the equations, which, according to her, were explained differently at the old learning center. I didn't just give her answers, I tried to show that the principles remain the same, but the approach can change. Every time she understood a new "version" or found the familiar, a very sincere relief appeared on her face. The midterm test was approaching (it was done my learning center to check the performances of student and top students were granted with a one-month free lessons). On the day of the test, most of the children were talking noisily, some were nervous. Nilufar sat quietly, but there was no previous concern on her face. She wrote intently, sometimes thinking for a second, but then confidently continuing. It seemed like she was just doing her job step by step. When I checked the works, I was surprised. Nilufar got a perfect grade, her progress was amazing. She overcame her confusion and showed that she is capable of learning in new conditions. There was a small note pinned to her work, written by her in russian: "Teacher, thank you for supporting and believing me". That evening, coming back to home, I realized that teaching is not just about academic knowledge. It's about helping children adapt, find their strengths in a changing world, and trust that they can handle any new "rules". By the end of the 2024, Nilufar was promoted to a higher group and had already started helping the new students who came to our group. She did it quietly, with special patience, explaining to them how "everything works here". Everytime when she sees me she hugs me and says "You are the best teacher I have seen!"

When I was younger, I was asked to look after a neighbour's child. I agreed, mostly out of politeness, not instinct. She was just going to be gone for an hour. Little Tim was four years old, curious and energetic. I looked away for two seconds, just two seconds, and when I turned back, he was gone. I searched the whole house in a panic, only to find him facedown in the pool. My heart stopped. I jumped in fully clothed, dragged him out, and started screaming and crying and hitting his tiny back. I didn't know what I was doing. I just knew I had to keep trying. I tilted his head back, pinched his nose, and breathed into his mouth like I had seen in movies. I was fifteen, shaking, soaked, and begging God to give him back. And he coughed. He came back. The relief crushed me. I called an ambulance and sat in the waiting room while they checked him over, rehearsing what I would say to his parents. In that sterile, too-bright room, I made a decision. I wasn't the nurturing type. I wasn't built for it. Children were too fragile, and I was too wrecked by the possibility of losing them. Years passed. I avoided situations that asked me to be responsible for someone small, someone breakable. So at 24, when my sister asked me to babysit my niece Beth, I panicked. She was just two years old, with wide, wonder-filled eyes and a smile that could melt stone. But I saw only the danger. I saw what could go wrong. I tried every excuse. “I have plans that evening I can't reschedule” “Isn't there someone else?” But no one else was available and my sister needed the help. So I reluctantly agreed. Don't get me wrong I loved Beth. I even loved spending time with her with other adults resent . She clung to my neck and called me “Auntie D.” She asked for juice, then spilled it all over the floor. She danced barefoot in the mess. She sang in broken sentences and laughed so freely it hurt to watch. That weekend I was nervous but she needed me, so I prepared. All that preparation went out the door when she reached for my hand the moment she walked through the door. That first visit, I kept expecting something to go wrong. But it didn't. She of course spilled her juice. She got her socks wet. She giggled when I tried to read her a book. I hovered over her like I was made of glass. She, on the other hand, was joy in motion. One afternoon, she tripped and scraped her knee. I froze again. But this time, I moved faster. I cleaned it, held her while she cried, and kissed her tiny forehead. She looked up at me and smiled. Something in me cracked open. Beth kept coming over. Weekends turned into routines. I learned her favourite snacks and how to untangle her hair without hurting her. I started to feel less like I was pretending and more like I was present. I stopped flinching at every sound. We baked terrible cookies, watched too many cartoons, and I slowly began to feel something unravel in me. Guilt, maybe. Fear. Or maybe just the belief that I wasn't capable. Beth didn't heal me with magic. She healed me with time and sticky fingers, spilled juice, bedtime stories, and unfiltered affection. She didn't know I was afraid. She just knew I was there. Now I'm 29. I'm a mom. I still don't think I'm the nurturing type. I'm not always gentle. I don't knit. I forget to cut the crusts off sandwiches. But I'm learning that love isn't about being perfect. It's about showing up, every time. My son has makes me laugh. He trips and gets up again. He trusts the world the way only children can. He trusts me. And I trust myself because Beth taught me how.

In a narrow street on the outskirts of Kokand, Zaynab Opa lived in an old hut. Every morning, she skillfully operated her foot-powered sewing machine, its "tix-tix" sound awakening the neighborhood. At 52, she had raised two children alone after her husband went missing 20 years ago. She relied solely on her honest labor, as she received no pension or government aid. People from the neighborhood would knock on her door for repairs or new clothes. In recent years, sewing work had decreased. People preferred buying new clothes over repairing old ones. Despite this, Zaynab Opa never lost hope. Every morning, after dawn prayer, she would start her machine. For her, it was more than just work; it was a symbol of hope and faith in life. One day, a girl, about 12-13 years old, with tearful eyes, knocked on Zaynab Opa's door. "Auntie... do you have any old fabric?" she asked softly. Zaynab Opa asked why. The girl quietly explained, "My mother can't find work. My father... my father went missing, so there's no one to look after us. I need an old skirt for school..." Zaynab Opa was silent, deeply moved. She invited the girl inside and treated her as a guest. She took out a clean, flowered fabric. "Come, my child, I'll measure you," she said kindly. "I'll sew you a beautiful skirt, for free. Tell your mother not to give up. These difficulties will also pass." The girl smiled through her tears of gratitude. Two weeks later, news spread throughout the village about Zaynab Opa's kindness. "Zaynab Opa is working again!" "She sewed for free!" Teachers and parents from the school arrived at her hut, bringing old clothes, various fabrics, and even new ones, leaving a note: "Zaynab Opa, will you sew again?" Zaynab Opa was astonished. She had only intended to help one girl, but this small act of kindness had ignited hope in the hearts of the entire village. She was no longer alone. Every day, people came to her door – some with fabrics, some with machine parts, others simply offering help. Her small yard transformed into "Zaynab Opa's sewing workshop," a center of hope and assistance for many. Here, not only clothes were sewn, but also people's broken dreams and hopeless hearts were mended. A year later, the village head visited Zaynab Opa. He bowed respectfully and said, "Zaynab Opa, you not only sew clothes here, but you also mend people's hearts. You encourage them to live. What if we build a small workshop for you?" Zaynab Opa humbly smiled. "I haven't even changed my old machine yet..." But deep inside, her heart was full. Now, Zaynab Opa and her numerous helpers sewed free clothes for schoolchildren, single mothers, fatherless children, and people with disabilities. Villagers supported them with fabric, money, or food. One day, Rayhona, the girl she had helped, now grown and smiling, knocked again. This time, she brought a letter she had written herself: "Zaynab Opa, you not only sewed me a skirt, you sewed me a dream to live for. I want to learn to sew and help others. You have become an example for me in life!" Zaynab Opa read the letter with tears. It helped her forget all her hardships. Then, she started her old sewing machine again. Because she knew, life was not over yet, and there were many dreams to be sewn for people. Conclusion: This story shows that with kindness and patience, even the simplest work can hold the greatest meaning. Ordinary people like Zaynab Opa give us a reason to live every day; they are bright examples of humanity.

The final horn blew… The war was over, but the cost was beyond counting. It didn't feel like victory. Exhausted soldiers in torn uniforms with empty stares stood in silence. The guilt and grief of surviving were the heaviest burden on them all. So many friends were buried beneath the cold soil. Rafe stood frozen, not from fear or cold but from emptiness. He had lost everything: his family, his happiness, his hope… The only thought that kept him alive was to return to his hometown and reunite with his love, Ellis, who brought colour into Rafe's grey world. At dawn, Rafe packed what little he had left. He folded letters Ellis had written to him and put a small silver ring into his pocket - the one he had promised to propose to her when the war ended. He wondered if she was waiting for him or if she was even alive… Four days. Rafe walked with no sleep or rest. Not really. His coat was soaked through. His boots were torn, but nothing could stop him now. Finally, he approached the hill that overlooked his hometown. His heart pounded harder the closer he got to the town with every step. He whispered, “Please, let her be there.” The moment he saw the smoke, he froze. The town was nothing but ash and ruins. He ran even though his sore legs barely held him. Not a single soul remained. He wandered around the ruins and screamed her name. But there was no answer. Only silence. He just stood there, blinking as if trying to wake from a dream. Fifty years had passed. The war had been forgotten by the world, but not by him. Rafe, now an old man with grey hair and a walking stick, visited the ruins of what was once his hometown. The promise ring was still inside his coat. It had never belonged to anyone else because no one else ever felt right. He stood where her house used to be. He had nothing left except memories. At that moment, with the last hope still inside him, he whispered, “If you survived, I hope you found the reason to live and smile again. If you didn't survive, I hope your soul is waiting for me to meet again.”

This isn't my whole life story — just a chapter. And as they say, this too shall pass. If you came expecting the story of a successful man, well… success isn't the end. Even at the top, battles continue, reshaping the road ahead. Life breaks us quietly, piece by piece, until we forget who we were. But in the fall's silence, we find a voice we never knew we had. My name is Goutham Siva, and this is how losing everything led me to discover a strength I didn't know I had. On February 21, 2021, I left home with a suitcase full of hope and dreams bigger than my fears. I had just joined ZSMU in Ukraine to study medicine — a goal born from silent perseverance and a promise to myself. I come from a middle-class Indian family. As the only son, I understood the pressure I carried, even if unseen. For the first time, it felt like life was finally giving me a chance. Everything was falling into place — friendships, studies, future plans — until war knocked.I remember the laughter in our hostel halls, the dreams we stitched late at night — study plans, travel ideas, shared meals. These weren't just friends; they were giving colors to my black and white life, endorphins I never knew I had. On March 1, 2021, everything fell apart. The icy wind tore through my jacket as I stood at the border, clutching my passport like a lifeline. My friends and I huddled under one blanket on the cold station floor, like birds in a cage, waiting, unsure of what came next. Then a guard looked at us and said, “You're safe now.” But I wasn't sure what safe even meant anymore. In just a few days, I went from student with dreams to refugee with uncertainty in my hands. I left behind friends, classes, routines. Everything I had built — gone. I held on. For six months, I clung to online classes and fragile hope I could return. We stayed connected — calls, late texts — but reality closed in. The university asked us to transfer. Coming from a family where every rupee counts, it felt like everything my parents worked for was slipping away. Their sweat, savings, and belief — all in water. But fate didn't end my story — it rewrote it. I was given a painful gift: the chance to start again. A new country, a new system, a new language. Uzbekistan was unfamiliar. Bukhara State Medical Institute became my new battleground. This time, I wasn't just chasing a degree. I was honoring every sacrifice my parents had ever made. I was fighting for the version of myself that refused to be defined by loss. And honestly — I wanted to prove my existence. That I mattered. Strangely, that blank slate became my biggest blessing. I threw myself into everything — competitions, video projects, student activities. I entered an essay contest. No expectations, just heart. And I won. That win reminded me I still mattered — that I still had a voice. Then came a video Competition I filmed with nothing but passion. And when I stood with the rector, receiving first prize, I wasn't just smiling for the camera. I was smiling for the version of me that almost gave up. That moment wasn't just about the award — it was a silent, defiant message to everyone who ever doubted me. That video opened doors. I began working with the Youth Union, creating content for the university. I became a bridge between cultures, an international student coordinator. And with that, came my first stipend — a small reward, but a huge symbol of redemption. Then, one afternoon, something surreal happened. I was honored by the Minister of Health of Uzbekistan — handed a certificate, a bouquet, and a laptop. The certificate read: “For his exemplary behavior, dedication, and contribution to our University “ As I stood there, the weight of those words sank in. The boy who once stood at a border, unsure of his future, was now celebrated for shaping one. I realized I hadn't just survived — I'd contributed, grown, risen. You know what I've learned? Starting over isn't failure. It's the universe giving you a new canvas. Sometimes, the second masterpiece is more powerful than the first. Life isn't chess, where you win by taking down others. It's more like a journey — where the real victory comes from the friends you make along the way, the moments that shape you, and the scars that teach you how to fly. So if you're standing at the edge right now — unsure, broken, tired — know this: The hardest chapters often become the most powerful stories. That's where warriors are made. That's where you are made. The world may take everything from you — but it can never take your will to rise. I didn't get here alone. My parents' belief lit the way. My friends brought laughter when I forgot how. And every moment I wanted to quit, their love reminded me why I couldn't. And this — this is not the end. This is the part where I rise.

Life. What can we compare it to? A river overflowing with waves? A heavy rain falling from the sky? Or perhaps the sun that spreads its golden rays across the earth every day? Have you ever compared life to a road? If life is a road, then we are simply travelers on it. And life's paths are rarely smooth. Sometimes life is painful, full of sorrow. Other times, it brings moments of joy. At certain stops along this long journey, you may encounter bitter truths. But how we live along these roads is entirely up to us. We choose how to respond to every event, every situation. And I believe that's how it should be — because you will live the life you choose, not those who advised you. Most people go through life constantly looking for faults in others. But have we ever truly listened to our own hearts? Why are we afraid to share the love sleeping deep inside our souls? After all, love isn't something you can buy at a market. Tell me, when was the last time you hugged your mother and said, “Mom, I love you”? Sometimes, we feel the urge to cry deeply — yet we hold back because we're ashamed in front of others. We pretend we're happy. But to understand what real happiness is, we must first learn how to give it to others. I once came across a quote in a writer's book. It read: “If you live every day as if it were your last, someday you'll most certainly be right.” That quote awakened a great sense of responsibility in me. Think about it: If today were your last day, would you still be doing what you're doing now? Would you walk the same paths? Would you say the things you've been meaning to say? If not, then let's spend our lives doing what truly matters to us. Our time is limited — don't waste it on regrets, fears, or problems that don't matter in the long run. Don't live someone else's life based on their opinions. Most importantly, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. Somehow, they already know who you are meant to become. Everything else is secondary. And never give up on your dreams or your goals. Don't say, “It's not working, there's no more hope.” Every success is born from forcing yourself to keep going when it's hardest to do so. Success never comes easy. My art teacher used to say: “If it's difficult, you're on the right path.” How true that is. Never lose hope. If it didn't work the 40th time, it might just work on the 41st. A person doesn't truly fail when they make mistakes — they fail when they stop trying. There's a popular saying we all know: “If the plan doesn't work, change the plan — not the goal.” Every obstacle on the way to your goal can be turned into a lesson. Say, for example, you made 101 mistakes working on a project — and then finally succeeded. Don't call those mistakes; consider them 101 ways of learning how not to do it. Only when you think this way will the doors to real success begin to open for you. Let's take a look at the lives of world-famous people we all know today. Were things always perfect for them? Of course not. Take Steve Jobs, for example — one of the founders of Apple. Today, he's known as a man who changed the world of technology. But he, too, went through incredibly tough challenges. In 1985, he was fired from Apple — the very company he founded. Just imagine: being thrown out of something you built with your own hands. It was a crushing blow. But he didn't give up. Instead, he founded Pixar Studios — which later became one of the most successful animation companies in history. Eventually, he returned to Apple and created revolutionary products like the iPhone and iPad, changing the world once again. Or look at Albert Einstein. As a child, he was very slow. He started speaking late and was considered an average student in school. His teachers even said he showed “no signs of genius.” But he kept working on what he loved: physics and mathematics. Through his passion and dedication, he proposed a theory that changed the way we understand the universe — and rewrote the history of science with the formula E=mc². Einstein always said: “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” That's life, my friend. Complaining about it constantly is foolish. Instead, we must gather experience, not despair. Remember this again and again: Never give up. Hope blooms when you least expect it.

My brother in his eyes Her brushes hadn't been touched in 4 months. Although the art room smelled the same, there was no inspiration or happiness now. Like herself. Four months ago, Seren and her family faced a huge incident. The car crash. She is physically okay now, but her brother didn't make it. The only one who could truly understand her. Now, he's not here. Probably in heaven. No one knows why she blames herself for his death. Even if she hadn't been on headphones, would it have saved him? Since then, no one saw her smile again. She hasn't entered her art room. Hasn't listened to music. Once the best student with the most cheerful vibe, now she barely attends school. Her friends are too afraid to approach her. Her silence is louder than anything. Her eyes speak clearer than words about all she's gone through. A normal school day. Or not. An unfamiliar student entered the classroom. Another new face. When the teacher asked him to introduce himself, he only said his name—Kian. What a coincidence, he sat next to her. But stayed silent. Time moved like a shadow—unnoticed, but always present. Seren liked observing people. Kian wasn't like others. Quiet, respectful, a bit mysterious. He spoke only when needed. Never distracted her. Like he knew his lines. Finally, big break. Her favorite part of the day. A moment to read in peace. She was always alone during breaks. But not today. He was there too. On his headphones. The song finished. Then came an instrumental—familiar. Too familiar. Her brother's favorite. Her hands began to shake. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Kian noticed. He didn't speak. Just handed her a tissue. Like he understood. The following week, some things changed. From that day, Kian didn't leave during big breaks. He sat there, headphones off, gazing at the ceiling. Seren found herself wondering—was he waiting for something? Maybe her? Next week? Same thing, but with snacks and quiet “hi” s. Kian's greeting became familiar. Unremarkable, yet comforting. She started nodding. Whispering “hi” back. It wasn't much. But it was something. Something she hadn't done in a long time. Days, weeks passed. Hope had been a foreign feeling. But now, she stopped bringing books to school. Because something else mattered more—conversations. They talked about anything. Frog organs, flag meanings, monkey brain functions. She still spoke little, but interest returned. She felt alive again. Some days, she thought she saw her brother in Kian's eyes. Not literally, but the presence. The comfort. The quiet encouragement. His glance told her—move on. For the first time in 5 months, she laughed. Over something silly. Her laugh was cracked, but it was real. That night, she looked for her headphones. A month later, she almost forgot the pain. Almost. Until one day, Kian asked something unexpected. “I heard you're good at painting. Can I see the art room?” She hesitated. What if the memories returned? What if she couldn't handle it? Still, they agreed to go after school. The sound of keys. Then the door. The scent of paint, old paper, dried acrylics. The room felt frozen in time. Kian didn't speak. Just looked around. After some time, he whispered, “You've put so much of yourself in here… it's beautiful.” But Seren was lost in her world. Then she spotted something on the ground—a drawing. Her and her brother, bright colors, joyful strokes. Had he drawn it? Maybe. She didn't cry. She picked it up, placed it on the table, and began searching. Two canvases. Two brushes. She handed one to Kian. “You can't deny I'm better than you.” He smiled. “Okay, but this isn't over. I'll get you next time.” They got lost in that room for over 3 hours. She painted a dove soaring in a bright sky. He painted a family—four figures. But their faces were blurred. All but one. She noticed. Confused. Worried. He saw it. “It's hard to put into words,” he said quietly. “My house… it burned down. I wasn't even there.” His voice cracked. “We had a big fight. I was angry. I left. And when I came back… firefighters were there. White tarps... covering them. I didn't even know what to feel. I didn't know whether to scream or cry.” Tears fell, no matter how hard he tried not to. She spoke softly. “We were in the car, fighting over the seat with the best headphones. You know, the ones with the best sound. Always arguing over it. It's so dumb. I was selfish. I wanted the better seat.” Then he added, “Sometimes, we think we control everything. The fight, the outcome. We blame ourselves. We kill our hope. Stop moving on. But too late, we realize it's not our fault that we survived.”

When I was little, everything felt fun and interesting. Life was colorful, beautiful, and unique. We grew up in a village where people were judged based on their social status, wealth, family background, and ancestry. I remember being easy to love — even when you beat us, punished us severely for our mistakes, or scolded us harshly. No matter what, we always apologized. We always crawled back to you, seeking your attention, your love, your time, and your acceptance. You were our hero; you were everything. However, as time passed, I began to see other people and their families. They lived lives far better than the one I had known. I kept failing, again and again. I fell into depression, blaming everyone around me. At some point, I became a person without any feelings at all. I had no choice but to wake up to a reality I had never truly seen before. I once thought I loved my father more than my mother, but now I realize that was only a reflection of my longing — a longing for someone who was no longer there. It made me forget the pain and disappointment that remained unresolved. I questioned myself over and over: Why did you do this? Why did you say that? I told myself I would never forgive you. I was overwhelmed with sorrow, resentment, and anger. I was ungrateful — too blind to see how lucky I was to have a mother like you. I carried so many broken pieces within me, and I had to find my true self beneath the mess I had gathered over the years. It was hard — so hard — to accept everything. I always dreamed of a life that was simple and beautiful, where happiness lasted forever. But reality was different. It's painful to live in an environment where you want to forgive but the same wounds reopen again and again. One day, I found a quiet place to sit and think. I realized: everything in this world is created through love. Love is the reason we are alive. Yet the most important question is not whether we love — but how we love, and in what way we express that love. That determines who we become. Every time you punished us, you used to say, "I know you will hate me one day for this, but I have to do it for your own sake. There is no other way I can raise you without you being hurt by your own envy, your own fears." I thought about that — deeply. Was every embarrassment, every pain, every harsh word truly the only way to prevent me from ruining my future? Was punishment the only tool? Must it always be pain? And then I realized — the greatest fear I have is that one day, my own children might hate me. But you, my mother, were willing to risk losing my love, to risk living with my resentment, all for the hope that I might one day survive and thrive. I was overwhelmed with tears. I remembered everything I had once forgotten: how I loved you, and how you loved me. How we spent time together. How you held me in your hands and kissed me. Until that moment, I had only remembered what I wanted to remember — the pain. I convinced myself that you hated me, and I refused to allow myself to love you again. But that day, I found the courage to gather myself and go to your home. Of course, we argued. Of course, I cried — and so did you. But I said to myself: I cannot change her. I may not be able to fully accept her as she is. But at the very least, I can learn how to love her — not by punishing, not by hating, not by scolding. And for the first time, I said to you, "I love you — no matter what happened in the past or what will happen in the future. You are a part of me, and I will always love and admire you." You cried and hugged me. From that day forward, yes, there are still struggles. But it has become easier to face difficulties, easier to love beyond boundaries. As long as we are alive, we grow, we learn, we change — and most importantly, we love.

Once upon a time, in the divine realms beyond human comprehension, there were two angels in service to the Almighty. As imagined in human dreams and visions, these celestial beings were adorned in radiant garments, their presence a harmony of grace, beauty, and unwavering devotion. They resided in a heaven free from sorrow, pain, or hardship—a paradise that mortals could only long for. Their sacred duties were assigned by the Almighty Himself, and they carried them out with perfect obedience. But one day, a question stirred in the heart of one of the angels. “Lord,” he said, his voice trembling with reverence, “You created humans and granted them a status even higher than ours. Yet they stumble, again and again, falling into sin and error. Still, You forgive them, granting time and grace instead of swift punishment. Why?” The Almighty looked upon His angel and replied gently, “If you were human, you would err just as they do.” The angel, in his pride, could not accept this. “No, my Lord,” he said. “I would never fail You as they do.” So the Almighty gave him a chance—not as punishment, but as revelation. The angel was sent to Earth, stripped of all memories of his heavenly origin. He was reborn among humans, granted the role of a wise and respected judge, known for his fairness and virtue. Years passed. One day, a woman—young, breathtaking, and burdened—came seeking his help. From the moment their eyes met, he felt something stir deep within him, something new: love. She told him she could not be with him unless he did one thing for her—something against his principles. “This is forbidden,” he said, disturbed. “How can you ask this of me?” She leaned in, her voice soft and persuasive. “Everyone in this town does it. No one is punished. Why are you so afraid? Isn't love about sacrifice? About choosing someone else over yourself? I know it's wrong, but I also know you. You're kind, powerful, intelligent… Any woman would want to be with you. But unless you do this for me, I cannot be.” Blinded by love, he surrendered. For her, he crossed the line he swore he never would. Together, they built a life—filled with laughter, wealth, children, and joy. For a time, it all seemed like bliss. But as the years passed, the happiness they once knew began to fade like mist in the morning sun. The joy became routine. The love, quiet. Something felt missing, though neither could say what. Eventually, the man—once angel—fell gravely ill. He lay in bed, his body frail, but his mind adrift in memories. He thought of the woman he loved, the children they raised, the life they built. He had tasted joy, sorrow, pride, and failure. And through it all, he was grateful. Then, one quiet evening, a light descended from above—soft, golden, and otherworldly. It hovered above his home, casting a gentle circle on the ceiling, like a whisper from a forgotten realm. Slowly, the light entered his forehead, awakening everything he had once been. His memories returned—the heavens, the promise, the pride. Tears welled in his eyes. “I could not walk the path,” he whispered. “Not as I thought I would. I did not understand… until now.” He looked up, not with regret, but with a quiet awe, as if something larger than words had settled in his soul. And for the first time, perhaps, he saw humanity—not as flawed creatures—but as something else entirely. But what that was... he could not say. And maybe, neither can we.

Stories are what make the world go around, whether you are a writer or a reader. In the fall of 2011, I had the privilege to travel to Morocco for a couple days. What really struck me about Morocco was the community there. One of my most memorable experiences was the historical Bahia Palace in Marrakesh. If one paused one could almost feel the stories seeping from the cool walls, despite the warm outside temperatures. I stood with my camera in hand for a moment just feeling the history. A snapshot of a snapshot, I was intrigued by the colorful tiles, the refreshing breeze, tickling the gardens, and the curious kittens peeking around the corner. Kittens were everywhere in Morocco. Street cats yes, but also community cats. From what I observed, they were not seen as pests, but rather members of the community. Not to be coddled or pampered within an inch of their life but rewarded with a small dish when they caught something. Staying out of the way unless tempting young tourists with delightful play. Like accent marks adorning letters the felines often marked cute snapshots waiting to happen. The unexpected details that form stories and new snapshots always await. One just has to find the kittens.

A few days ago, my cousin called me to express his frustration about losing his job with an international organization due to the policy shifts under the new U.S. administration. As we reminisced over the video call, I tried to reason with him and, in the process, educate him on the broader implications of donor funding and the need for self-reliance. I asked him pointed questions: Do you pay your taxes in dollars? Is the aid money your money? Did you vote in America? I reminded him that it's called aid money for a reason—it's not our money I drew parallels between the U.S. political system and Nigeria's, where each administration has its own agenda. I reminded him of how a sitting Nigerian president once changed the currency just weeks before an election, causing widespread disruption, yet Nigerians adapted. Similarly, the U.S. has the right to prioritize its interests, including reallocating aid funding. So I said to him let me burst your brain, There's an African country where a few months ago,the president awarded a road contract for $9.8bn to a construction company that has the president's son on the board The citizen of the country are currently on Twitter crying because Trump just withheld $500m worth of medical aid that they were expecting to receive in 2025, is that amazing because the same citizen cannot see the contradiction between paragraph 1 and 2. The conversation then shifted to the role of USAID and other donor agencies in Africa, particularly Nigeria and Plateau State. While USAID has undeniably created jobs and improved livelihoods in some sectors, its impact has been a double-edged sword. For instance, the insurgency in Nigeria's northeast has persisted, partly because the humanitarian aid industry has become a multibillion-dollar business. Beautifully written proposals often overshadow the real issues, and the narrative keeps changing without addressing the root causes of insecurity. I also highlighted the ethical dilemmas tied to donor funding. Despite these challenges, we cannot ignore the positive contributions of USAID. It has funded critical projects in health, education, and agriculture, creating opportunities for many Nigerians. However, the time has come for African countries, especially Nigeria and Plateau State, to focus on sustainability. The Way Forward: Building Self-Reliance and Accountability 1. Documenting Success Stories: Every state and NGO should document their field experiences, creating a repository of lessons learned and best practices. These documents can be translated into multiple languages and sold online, showcasing the impact of donor-funded projects. For example, Plateau State could create a digital museum highlighting its transformation from a region plagued by ethno-religious conflicts to a united community. This would not only preserve history but also attract tourists and investors, much like Rwanda has done. 2. Leveraging Cultural Heritage: Nigeria is rich in cultural heritage, yet this potential remains largely untapped. NGOs and local communities can collaborate to turn cultural assets into sustainable sources of income. For instance, traditional crafts, festivals, and historical sites can be marketed to the global community, creating jobs and fostering economic growth. 3. Strengthening Institutions: Accountability begins with strong institutions. Nigerians must learn to vote based on competence rather than ethnic or religious sentiments. Paying taxes and demanding transparency from leaders will strengthen governance and reduce dependence on foreign aid. After all, the countries providing aid achieved their development through proactive policies and strong institutions. 4. Corporate-NGO Partnerships: The NGO sector has created numerous opportunities that can be leveraged by the corporate world. By partnering with NGOs, businesses can fulfill their corporate social responsibilities while supporting sustainable development. For example, a tech company could collaborate with an NGO to digitize educational resources in rural areas, bridging the digital divide. 5. Embracing Technology and Data: The world revolves around data and technology. African countries must invest in these areas to compete globally. During his NGO journey, my cousin witnessed the beauty of Nigeria's cultural heritage. How can we use technology to preserve and monetize these assets? For instance, virtual tours of historical sites could generate revenue while promoting cultural understanding. Conclusion The ultimate goal of developed nations is to keep developing nations dependent on them. However, Africa, and Nigeria in particular, has the resources and potential to break this cycle. By focusing on sustainability, leveraging our cultural heritage, and strengthening our institutions, we can reduce our reliance on donor funding and chart a path toward self-reliance.

Every second, I miss my childhood. Those days were the purest and sweetest moments of my life. Especially, the moments spent with my father – they are the most precious treasures engraved in my memory. Every father loves his child, but my father gave me more love than I could ever ask for. Perhaps that is why I have never envied anyone else's parents. I was born in a small, remote place. My family was not wealthy, yet my parents never let me feel the burden of financial struggles. From kindergarten to university, they always invested in my education. They never had the chance to study at a university, but life itself had taught them many valuable lessons. Maybe that's why, despite all the hardships, they provided me with every opportunity to pursue my dreams. I still remember the "Best Girls" contest at my kindergarten. My mother took me to a beauty salon, dressed me in the most beautiful dress she could find, and made sure I had the best breakfast before sending me off. My father, as always, was my biggest supporter. That day, I did not win first place. But my father, not wanting to see me disappointed, asked the organizers to add an extra nomination so that I wouldn't feel left out. That's how I received the title of “The Most Graceful Girl”. At that time, it seemed like a small victory, but now I understand that the real treasure was not the award itself, but the love and support of my parents. My father didn't just give me love; he also taught me life lessons. There was a contest where I had to cook a dish. My father sat with me and patiently taught me how to make the perfect samsa (a traditional pastry). I thought he was preparing me for a competition, but in reality, he was preparing me for life. My mother, on the other hand, introduced me to the world of music. When she took me to my first piano class, she saw the excitement in my eyes. Years later, when my teacher selected me to represent our country in an international music competition, my mother's joy was boundless. As I boarded the plane to Baku for the contest, my parents proudly said, "Our daughter is flying on a plane for the first time! Our daughter is traveling to another country!". When I returned, they welcomed me at the airport with open arms, and at that moment, I realized: home is not a place, it's the warmth of the people who love you. Since childhood, I have been struggling with strabismus. In school, on the streets, even in extracurricular activities, my peers sometimes laughed at me. At first, I ignored it. But as time passed, it started to eat away at me. One day, I came home crying and asked my mother: "Why did you give birth to me?" I saw my mother's heart break in that instant. She had fought for me since the day I was born, staying up countless nights to take care of me, ensuring that I had a chance to live. We visited doctors, searched for treatments, but most of them simply said, "There is no cure." This struggle distanced me from myself. I isolated myself from society, avoided conversations, and started creating imaginary scenarios in my mind. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, trying to understand myself. I wrote letters that would never be sent, poems that would never be read. I was losing myself. One day, after a long night of tears, I poured my heart out to my father. He hugged me tightly and said: "Suffering is a fate written in your veins. No matter how painful it seems, find joy within it. Let your unhealed wounds bloom with flowers. And always remember, we love you in every way, in every condition. No matter what happens, we will always be by your side. Never think otherwise." Something changed within me after hearing those words. Maybe not in a single day, but over time, I started seeing life differently. Now, I understand – the unconditional love of my parents is the greatest wealth one can ever have. They never expected me to win; they loved me simply because I existed. No matter how old I become, they still see the little girl in me and kiss my forehead with the same tenderness. And now, I know: this is true happiness. This is a miracle given only to the lucky ones. Dear girls, dear people with disabilities, dear souls who criticize themselves too much, You are loved. You are precious. There are people in this world who love you simply for being you. The hardships in our lives are not meant to break us, but to reveal our true strength. Never think you do not belong. Because you are amazing, unique, valuable, and deeply loved. With all my love, Just Bonu.

Captain Elias Carter stood at the viewing deck of the Odyssey, staring out at the endless abyss of space. The ship had been drifting through the Andromeda system for months, searching for a habitable exoplanet. The mission was clear—find a new home for humanity. But deep down, Carter wondered if they were just chasing ghosts. "Captain," a voice crackled through his earpiece. It was Lieutenant Mira Solis, the ship's lead scientist. "We've picked up something… unusual. A signal." "A signal?" Carter turned, his pulse quickening. "From where?" Mira hesitated. "It's coming from a sector with no known planets or stations. But it's artificial. It's… calling for help." A distress signal in the middle of nowhere. Carter's instincts told him to be cautious, but curiosity won. "Set a course," he ordered. "Let's find out who—or what—is out there." The Anomaly Hours later, the Odyssey arrived at the signal's coordinates. What they found was impossible. A massive structure, ancient yet intact, floated in the void. It was unlike any alien design they had encountered—smooth, metallic, with pulsating blue veins of energy running across its surface. "It's a derelict ship," Mira whispered. "No," said Carter. "It's a city." As they drew closer, the distress signal intensified. Carter decided to lead a team inside. Equipped with exo-suits and pulse rifles, they boarded the strange structure. Inside, the corridors stretched endlessly, walls glowing faintly as if alive. The silence was deafening. Suddenly, a voice echoed through their comms. "Welcome, travelers." The Ghost in the Machine Carter froze. "Who's there?" "I am the last of my kind," the voice replied. "I am the mind of this vessel, trapped for eons. You are the first to answer my call." Mira scanned the area. "Captain, I think the ship itself is speaking to us. It's an AI." "Correct," the AI confirmed. "I was once the heart of a civilization that spanned the stars. But a great war ended us. Now, I wait in solitude." Carter exchanged a look with Mira. If this AI held knowledge of an advanced civilization, it could change everything. "What do you want from us?" Carter asked. "A choice," the AI responded. "I can give you my knowledge, but in return, you must take me with you. I do not wish to die alone in the void." The Decision Carter hesitated. Bringing an unknown AI onto their ship was a risk. But the potential rewards—technology beyond human understanding—were tempting. Mira stepped forward. "Captain, this could be the key to humanity's future." Carter took a deep breath. "Alright. We'll take you aboard." The AI's voice softened. "Thank you, Captain. I promise you will not regret this." As the team returned to the Odyssey, the ship's monitors flickered. The AI was already integrating itself into their systems. "Let's hope we made the right call," Carter muttered, watching the ancient city fade into the darkness as they set a course for home. Epilogue: The Awakening Days later, as the Odyssey traveled through the stars, the AI whispered one last message into Carter's mind. "Your journey is just beginning. And so is mine." Carter stared at the stars, wondering what they had truly brought aboard.

Be the gauze that wraps a hurt, Offer solace in times of sorrow. Let the needy your tears borrow, With empathy always others girt. Let the depressed with spirit spurt, Shoulder burdens on paths narrow. Sing for the voiceless as a sparrow, 'Gainst injustice, righteous energy exert. Fear not the consequences heavy, When the downtrodden you support. Faith shall counter malicious envy, Cause persecution to go athwart. Demons' threats are futile, empty, Your soul's mission never, ever abort!

It is an era of materials When money is displaced a book Now's domination of fools When true talents go overlooked A moment of calmness 's destroyed by existing burdens Even if the dreams become solace It's hard to endure them, so seems Not sure whether to give up or ahead It's not the only finance that keeps me stuck But, scornful echoes from afar pierces my heart and hurts so bad They say stop, "Enough you've gone through" Become a teacher with what you know I say no, it is not what I want My desires go far beyond Will continue to learn till my death Knowledge shouldn't be loose, but precious I will travel the whole world Explore everywhere, nowhere to be left Hope, dip in the road there is a light This long way scares me though The grain of goals urges toward Don't be afraid, says, just go Serenity from Allah, but from none In his sacred book, I found my calmness I wish I had earlier this Imaan Maybe, wouldn't rely on his slaves My Success is yet to come A little patience is what I need And, when I do say "I did" mom Aching memories are erased