Introduction

Nowadays, I see a troubling tendency that can upset anyone with common sense: the people of Tajikistan are losing their cultural identity. The people of the Republic seem to have forgotten where they came from and who they truly are. They have lost touch with the way of life of our kings and ancestors, which is truly heartbreaking. Many now aspire to look like people from other countries, adopting superficial traits such as green or blue hair, mimicking foreign dress styles, and embracing behaviors that are not their own. They learn foreign languages and tend to dress and act like the people from those countries, believing that knowing another language somehow makes them superior. In the process, they deny their own language and heritage, mentally investing in another country by adopting its language, fashion, and customs, all while forgetting the rich traditions and values that our ancestors passed down to us.

This trend threatens to erode the unique cultural fabric that defines Tajikistan. Preserving our language, customs, and identity is not merely about nostalgia; it is about honoring the sacrifices and wisdom of those who came before us and ensuring that future generations remain grounded in their heritage. While it is natural to admire other cultures and learn from them, it should never come at the cost of abandoning our roots. True pride lies in embracing who we are—our history, our language, our traditions—while confidently engaging with the wider world without losing ourselves. If this trend continues unchecked, we risk losing the very essence that makes Tajikistan distinct and proud. It is time to awaken a collective awareness and renew our commitment to preserving and celebrating our cultural identity.

The Challenge

Let me give you a simple example that illustrates how disconnected some of our people’s thinking has become from reality. Recently, I was with a group of friends in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, where we decided to go for a walk and have lunch together. When the waitress came to take our order, the group started speaking mostly in English and some Russian. The waitress, however, only understood her native language, which upset many of those ordering—they demanded someone who could speak their languages. I spoke up and said, “These aren’t even ‘your’ languages. Please stop mocking people; it’s disrespectful.” They asked what I meant, so I explained that the waitress is not obligated to speak any language other than her own. If you identify as a Tajik man or woman, living in the Republic, then the language of the Republic should be your primary language. To expect others to adapt while you abandon your own language is wrong. I asked them to stop showing off and left the lunch. Before leaving, I apologized to the waitress for their behavior. This incident stayed with me and made me reflect deeply on how far we’ve drifted from our roots and the respect for our own culture and language.

One of the greatest challenges we face today—especially in countries like Tajikistan—is the silent erosion of cultural identity. In the pursuit of modernity, global relevance, or perceived superiority, many are abandoning their roots. Language, dress, values, and traditions are slowly being replaced by borrowed lifestyles that may look appealing on the surface, but carry no connection to who we truly are. The danger is not in learning foreign languages or being open to the world—that in itself can be enriching. The danger lies in the mindset that to be "someone" you must stop being yourself. This identity crisis leads to a collective inferiority complex, where our own language is looked down upon, our customs seem outdated, and our people feel ashamed of their origins. We see people priding themselves on how well they mimic other cultures while forgetting the wisdom, dignity, and strength of their own. The challenge is not just about preserving traditions—it’s about preserving self-respect, confidence, and national dignity in a world that constantly pushes conformity and external validation. Rediscovering pride in our language, our heritage, and our way of life is no longer just a cultural effort—it is an act of resistance and survival.

A Social Experiment in Identity and Validation

The people of the Republic have their strengths—one of them being that, for Tajiks, our kings still live on. When we speak of them, we use the present tense, as if to remind ourselves that they are still watching over us, still concerned for the future of their people.

Imagine meeting Cyrus the Great. Suppose you had just five or ten minutes with him. The first question he would ask might be simple: What happened to my empire and my people?

Now imagine you pull out your phone and show him today’s world—photos of modern men and women from Instagram. He sees the haircuts, the deliberately slimmed-down figures styled to mimic Korean idols, the carefully curated fashion, the posture, the walk. He might pause and say: These are not my people. What happened to them? He would ask, Why do they look like this?

Then he notices how modern Ajamis often speak in foreign tongues, believing it makes them sound more “modern” or “cool.” And he might respond: Was our language not cool enough? For centuries, entire empires trembled before us—because of our intellect, our identity, our power.

And after witnessing all of this, imagine Ismail Samani standing beside him, quietly asking: Was our first Tajik empire not good enough? Did I build and die for a nation, only to see them become a reflection of others?

There’s a subtle psychological trick I’ve used over the years to better understand the mindset of Tajik men and women—particularly how they perceive themselves in relation to the world. The method is simple, yet revealing: I give them a compliment. Not just any compliment, but one that associates them with another nationality, often based on their appearance or style.

The most effective version? I would say something like, “You remind me of someone from Italy,” or “You have the look of a South Korean artist.” The reaction was almost always the same—a moment of visible delight, surprise, even pride. Their posture would shift. Their smile would widen. They felt “seen” in a way that transcended the ordinary. That’s because the compliment subtly elevated them by associating them with cultures that carry prestige in fashion, technology, or global perception.

But here’s the key: I never referenced their actual country of origin, Tajikistan—even if I knew it. The whole point was to observe what happened when they were disassociated from their roots and temporarily linked to something perceived as higher-status or more modern. And what I discovered wasn’t just behavioral—it was deeply psychological.

This seemingly small gesture is underpinned by several powerful psychological and sociological theories:

According to Social Identity Theory, people derive a sense of pride and self-esteem from the groups they are associated with. When I told someone they looked Italian or Korean, I was assigning them to a group with global prestige. Even though it was fiction, the emotional reward was real. In that moment, they internalized the compliment as a sign that they belonged to something more “refined,” “stylish,” or “elevated.” This allowed them to feel superior—not just to others, but even to their own perceived limitations.

The compliment also triggered what's known as the halo effect—a cognitive bias where a positive impression in one area (e.g., appearance or style) spills over into other areas (e.g., intelligence, status, or taste). By associating them with a prestigious nationality, the brain didn’t just say, “I look Italian.” It said, “Maybe I am sophisticated, important, or elite—just like them.” And that feeling can change the tone of an entire conversation.

In many developing nations or post-colonial societies—like Tajikistan—there can be an undercurrent of cultural inferiority, often unspoken. Western and East Asian nations dominate the media landscape, education systems, and luxury markets. So when someone is told they resemble someone from one of these “dominant” nations, it taps into a buried desire to escape the cultural constraints or insecurities tied to their own background. It shows that, despite their heritage, they can still “belong” to the world that defines global modernity.

Neurologically, a compliment like this acts like a social reward, triggering dopamine release—the brain chemical responsible for pleasure, motivation, and reinforcement. Just like receiving a “like” on social media, being told they resemble someone from a wealthy or fashionable country provides a chemical boost that reinforces self-image. It's fast, subtle, and addictive. And once they’ve experienced that validation, they’re more likely to align with you in conversation—because you made them feel good.

Finally, Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of distinction helps explain the deeper layers of this reaction. In societies where conformity is common, many people crave uniqueness. They want to be seen as different, refined, or globally aware. By telling someone they resemble a person from a far-off, admired culture, you offer them a form of symbolic capital—something that marks them as not like the rest. It speaks to their desire to be perceived as exceptional, even if only through an illusion.

This experiment—though based on a simple compliment—reveals a profound truth: many people are quietly dissatisfied with their own cultural identity. Even if their country is rich in history, language, and tradition, they often long to be associated with something “cooler,” more globally accepted. They want to feel like they belong to the world stage, not just to their nation.

But this also raises a difficult question: Why is our own culture not enough? Why are we so eager to abandon it for an imported identity—even temporarily? If Cyrus the Great or Ismail Samani were to look at us today, would they see the continuity of their legacy—or the quiet erosion of pride in our own identity?