Introduction

Hello, everyone, and welcome to another reflection from my life.

We all know how much our ancestors influence the way we live today. The very existence of entire civilizations sometimes hinges on their decisions. And believe me, if they knew this, they would have worked even harder to make Tajikistan great again. But they have already done so much for our nation and our people—especially the younger generation.

Let me tell you something: the downfall of a civilization begins exactly when people start neglecting the things that, in one way or another, honor their historical figures. In other words, when a culture or civilization disregards the memory or representation of its great people, it starts to decay from within. It’s frightening to imagine because the effects may only appear after decades or even centuries—and they often go unnoticed until a major breaking point arrives.

Great individuals who changed the course of history—within their civilizations and sometimes for the whole world—seem to receive a kind of recognition from God Himself, which carries the power of a curse even after death. What that means is simple: if you try to tarnish their name or defame them, whether intentionally or unintentionally, you will bring destruction upon your own destiny, and karma will ensure you receive what you deserve.

Now, let me take you back to 2015—the golden year of my life—to the dusty city of Dangara, under the scorching heat and the beams of the yellow sun. You will understand why respecting our ancestors is the responsibility of an entire nation. This small example will change your perspective on respect and remembrance for the ancestors who built modern Tajikistan.

Backstory

"Onasha eau bara..." I muttered to myself when I couldn’t find the type of copybooks I really liked. The design was amazing. I was about 11 or 12 years old, attending the 56th School of Dangara City—the school of the best local hooligans and street fighters.

Speaking of design, I meant the kind of copybooks that featured depictions of great Persian-Tajik scholars and poets, along with their beautiful names and two to four lines of poetry, often written in the Cyrillic alphabet but in the Tajik language. Back then, I couldn’t imagine that one day—ten years later, in 2025—I would yearn for them and feel such nostalgia. I really miss them and would love to have them again, just to relive the memories of those beautiful days.

"Damn, if I could find just one of them..." I muttered again while walking through the bazaar. There was a guy who used to sell them to me at a good discount, but unfortunately, he said he no longer shipped them to my city.

By the way, that brutal phrase, "onasha eau bara," comes from Tajik Dangarian-Kulobi jargon and literally means “may your mother be drowned and washed away in a heavy flood.” We often use it when we’re desperate, sad, or frustrated. That’s what we say—and that’s our culture to this day. Now you can understand how I expressed my emotions back then. I still do, because it’s part of who I am—a part of being Eraj, a part of being me.

I asked myself, “What’s the reason? Where are the poets? Where are the scholars? Where is all this? Where did it all go?” I couldn’t find an answer. Instead, I bought other copybooks and headed straight to school, since the bell had already rung.

“Shit, I might be late! Run, Eraj!” I thought. When I told my teacher that those fancy copybooks were no longer available, she didn’t seem to care at all. That was suspicious, because I knew she knew something I didn’t.

“Hmm…” my thoughts swirled. “Something’s wrong here.”

The Revelation

Before we go further, let me share something. Did you notice that whenever you ask yourself too many questions in your own mind and heart, someone—or something—seems to be listening carefully, sneaking a peek through the door or wall? That’s God, I think—a very silent yet powerful presence, observing your inner voice, actions, and words. When He gathers enough information, the “explanation-revelation” process begins. And that’s exactly what happened to me.

It was 3:00 PM, Dangara City time. I was going home with Manyoz Umarov, my childhood best friend. We bought some ice cream and were chit-chatting about our daily routines, analyzing the little world of Dangara around us, laughing, exploring interesting facts, and simply enjoying life—the one life we get to live. And there was God walking with us.

I saw the same goddamn copybook I couldn’t find anywhere. It was torn apart. The depiction of Abdul-Qādir Bedil Dehlavi was cracked, right across his face—a horrible sight that both of us noticed. Going further, I saw another copybook of the same design—this time depicting Saadi Shirazi (full name: Abu-Muhammad Muslih al-Din bin Abdallah Shirazi)—lying on the ground in terrible condition.

Then, the last straw: a copybook of the same design depicting Abul-Qāsim Ferdowsi Tusi. We stopped, went back, and gathered each copybook we had encountered. Then God left us with our own conclusion, since His work was already done.

I came back home and saw my old copybooks from past years being thrown into the fire, simply because a general cleanup was taking place at our house. This included the same designs I could no longer find at the local bazaar. I was late. Everything was burnt.

I told my mother everything that had happened. A moment of silence prevailed before she explained everything—literally everything. She told me that the reason I couldn’t find such quality copybooks was that the government had decided to stop their serial production, to maintain respect for our ancestors at the proper level. That amazed me.

“Smart guys…” I said aloud.

“Yeah, that’s right…” my mother continued. She explained that this was the right decision because, after being filled out, people often used these copybooks as firewood or threw them away, resulting in them being torn apart. In general, the future of such copybooks—once written in—was often misused or treated inappropriately.

“Hmmm…” I confirmed. But I asked why she had burned the copybooks of the same design from past years. She said it was done to prevent their misuse. A very smart decision at the time—one that taught us not to take anything lightly along our path.

The Year 2025

We are here now, and so much has changed over time. Yet whenever I think of beautiful Dangara, I recall Odina Hoshim, a warm piece of noni ocha (“mother’s bread”), and herds of sheep and goats running through the valley. And when you think we are a small nation—you are wrong. Be proud of being Tajik, under our modern flag and the legacy of H.E. Emomali Rahmon, a leader who sacrificed everything so that we could walk through the avenues of modern Persian-Tajik cities. Respect your ancestors like never before, protect their legacy, and make them proud that you are here to continue their story.

In 2024, I spoke with a man from Egypt who had never heard of our country. I told him: “Egypt became part of the Achaemenid Empire under King Cambyses II, the son of Cyrus the Great. We are the people of Cyrus.” He paused and said, “Wow, now I can see.” Knowing your history—the history of your people—helps define who you are when you are in an international circle, where everyone is different but connected as humans. Don’t neglect this. You are better than that. You are Tajik—a blessing like no other.