Introduction

Wherever you go, no matter where you are, always consider the weather of the land. In a region scorched by the sun, filled with dust carried by the wind and parched by dry air, you’ll find that people’s patience wears thin if you cross their boundaries—or even approach that invisible red line.

I often hear my friends and comrades from Dangara say things like, “If I become successful, I’ll make Dangara great again.” They say this while lounging in luxury apartments in Dushanbe, sipping fine coffee, watching movies. But when the time comes to visit their parents’ homes in Dangara, panic sets in. Why? Dangara is undergoing a transformation. Roads are being widened, kicking up clouds of dust. Water is sometimes shut off for construction. Mobile internet drops because communication lines are being rerouted to new buildings—unless you have Wi-Fi, you’re out of luck. They panic intensely. And when they can’t find what they want at the local bazaar in Dangara City, their frustration boils over into outrage.

I turned to them and said, “If you can’t bear being in that city—or even carry the essence of that city within you—how will you ever make it great again? You’re not comfortable in your own skin, yet you dream of building something for others.” They fell silent, and a moment of reflection hung in the air. I explained that to feel at ease, one must first embrace themselves, starting with their own roots—their parents’ home.

But that’s not the main theme of today’s thoughts. The real question that lingered after we parted was one I asked myself: “Is it the scorching sun, or is there something more I don’t understand?” I wanted to explore how the sun and its relentless heat shape the behavior of Dangarians. Walking through the bazaar, I listened to the people. Some grumbled, “Gosh, this heat is overwhelming; I’m drowning in my own sweat.” Others muttered, “This is just too annoying.”

I wondered, “If the heat were gone and the weather cooler, would my friends feel more at ease in their own skin when visiting Dangara?”

The Sun’s Relentless Grip on Mood and Mind

The scorching sun of Dangara, often exceeding 40°C (104°F) in the summer months, does more than just warm the earth—it seeps into the psyche of its people. Scientific studies have long shown that extreme heat can significantly affect human behavior, increasing irritability, reducing patience, and even amplifying aggression. A 2019 study published in Nature Human Behaviour found that higher temperatures correlate with heightened irritability and conflict, particularly in environments with limited resources or ongoing stressors—like a city under construction, where dust and disruptions are constant.

In Dangara, the relentless heat compounds daily frustrations. The body’s physiological response to high temperatures—sweating, dehydration, and discomfort—triggers stress hormones like cortisol, which can make even minor inconveniences feel unbearable. When the bazaar lacks a desired item or the internet cuts out, these small annoyances become magnified under the sun’s oppressive weight. For Dangarians, this creates a feedback loop: the heat fuels frustration, and frustration fuels a sense of disconnection from their hometown.

Moreover, the sun’s intensity disrupts sleep, a critical factor in emotional regulation. In Dangara, where air conditioning is not universal and nighttime temperatures often remain above 25°C (77°F), restless nights are common. Sleep deprivation, as noted in a 2020 study in Sleep Medicine Reviews, reduces cognitive control, making people more prone to impulsive reactions and less able to manage their emotions. My friends’ outbursts about the bazaar or construction may not just be about the moment—they’re the culmination of sleepless nights and the constant strain of enduring the heat.

Cultural Pride and Environmental Strain

Yet, it’s not just biology at play. Dangarians carry a deep pride in their homeland, a region known for its resilience and cultural heritage. The sun, while harsh, is part of their identity—a force that has shaped their ancestors’ endurance and their own. But this pride can clash with the modern realities of a city in transition. The construction, meant to modernize Dangara, brings temporary chaos: dusty roads, water shortages, and unreliable services. For those who’ve tasted the comforts of Dushanbe, returning to this environment feels like a step backward, intensifying their frustration. The heat becomes a scapegoat, a tangible explanation for their discomfort, when the real issue may be the tension between their aspirations for Dangara and its current state.

This dynamic explains why my friends panic at the thought of returning home. The sun doesn’t just make them sweat—it amplifies their sense of displacement. They dream of a “great” Dangara, but the heat, dust, and disruptions make it hard to see the potential amidst the chaos. Their rage isn’t just about the weather; it’s about the gap between their vision and reality, made unbearable by the sun’s unyielding presence.