Afro‘z Farida

Farida Afro'z (Farida Botayeva) was born on March 5, 1956, in Kokand. She has been a member of the Writers' Union of Uzbekistan since 1994. Her poetry collections include «Qirq kokilligim», «Iztirob ko‘ylagi», «Tunlar isyoni», «Ko‘zim manim...», the historical drama «Qurbonjon dodxoh», «O‘zimdan o‘zimgacha», «Poka yest na zemle razluka...», «Ot Faridi Afruz» (Moscow), «Gun aydin» (Istanbul), «Ushshoq», «Tasbih», and «O‘sha kun - bugundir”. Her poems have been translated into Russian, Turkish, English, German, French, Persian, Uyghur, Azerbaijani, Gagauz, Chinese, and Korean. In turn, the poet has translated Japanese haiku, poems by Mustafa Ataturk, Ziya Gökalp, Hüseyin Nihal Atsız, Fazıl Hüsnü Dağlarca, and İsmet Özel from Turkish poetry, ghazals by Mehri Herati from Persian poetry as well as contemporary Persian poetry by Zahra Abul Husayni, Sudabeh, and Soya Kabiri, as well as contemporary Kazakh and Karakalpak poetry and works by American psychologist Dale Carnegie into Uzbek. Farida Afro'z currently serves as the general director of the «Afro‘z rekords» recording studio. She is married and has three children.

A true creator does not fall under the influence of the word until literature, or rather a literary passion, enters their blood. Then they surrender their fantasies to the power of the granted word, or the granted divine power itself begins to guide them. In one of my triplets, I said: “Creation is a pain felt before the swaddling clothes.” Indeed, the Creator marks the destiny of the seeker of the word as a “poet” even before they come into this world. No matter how lofty this sounds, the essence of all thoughts and understandings about literature leads to this. The word, poetry, passion. A poet lives by this trinity of power. Only those who own their word—and whose word is only theirs—are poets.

Poetry is a torrent that comes flowing only with its own state, with its own similes.

Passion is a blessing. It cannot be sought, nor can it be demanded. Passion is bestowed; that is, the creator of passions grants it to a true poet. This trinity constitutes the “I” of the poet.

To tell you the truth, I do not remember when poetry entered my heart. As far back as I can remember, I would look at flowers, look at water, and say something—not in ordinary human language, but in the language of my wonder, I would speak in rhymed words. Noticing this, my parents and friends would bury me with questions like, “Are you reciting a poem? Did you write it yourself? Where did you learn it?” When I recall my first wonder, I think of the bright yellow quinces floating in the stream at the end of our large courtyard. I wrote many, many poems about this.

I wrote my first poem when I was in the 5th grade. After several days of preparation, fearfully and with a thousand hesitations, I handed it to my literature teacher. My teacher read it and was delighted. That joy gave me hope and confidence. After that, they started making me recite poems at school assemblies and were proud of me. This gave me strength and, in turn, imposed responsibility upon me. Gradually, I became the school's renowned little “poetess”.

Later, I began to participate with my poetic performances in inter-school competitions, various events, and olympiads in Kokand.

My first poem was published at that time in the newspaper “Lenin uchquni”.

When we moved to the fifth grade, a strict teacher named Oliyaxon Ibrohimova began teaching us the native language and literature. Our teacher was a person of high potential and very deep knowledge. We would sit frozen in wonder before her very serious figure. Thanks to Oliyaxon opa, many literature lovers and journalists emerged from our school. Later, when I began teaching at school myself, I realized that my teacher had poured knowledge not just into my ears, but into my heart. In my own work, I relied on my teacher's teaching style.

At this point, I must mention another of my mentors. Since I have entered this mysterious and miraculous literary field, I have not been able to live a single day without the works of the poet Rauf Parfi.

I remember, around the time we were graduating from school... times when we flew in the skies embraced by dreams... One of those days, a book titled “Tasvir” (Image) by Rauf Parfi fell into my hands. I think it was 1973. This book completely enchanted me. I began to live night and day within those poems. The chains of profound meanings in the similes woven into the lines, the brightness and clarity of the imagery, the freedom of the spirit, the boundlessness of thought, and especially the irreconcilable battles between the soul and the spirit would not leave me in peace.

The murmurs of the thought turned my mind, my thinking, and my consciousness upside down. Can human intellect really have such power, can his imagination be so incomparable! I think about how it is possible to create such miracles from simple words that everyone knows and uses every day. My inside burns, my veins throb with wonder. The desire to resemble him, to write like him, gives me no peace.

Naturally, in such situations, interest in the poet's personality intensifies; it is certain that the desire to see him at least once, to have two words of conversation, to look into the eyes that could gather seven worlds, to watch the fingers that held the pen, stirs in the heart of any fan. I felt that way the first time I encountered the mentor's work. And I always tried to think and write like the mentor. How well I succeeded in this is known to the reader.

My first book is titled “Qirq kokilligim”. At that time, the head of the poetry department of the “G'afur G'ulom Publishing House of Literature and Art” was the poet Shavkat Rahmon. Azim Suyun and Muhammad Yusuf worked as editors. To publish a book, you had to pass through the sieve of such powerful, strict creators.

One day we heard that a book collection titled “Osmon shunday yaqin” was being prepared under the “First Book” rubric at this publishing house. I also submitted my manuscripts. Out of 72 young creators who presented their works, 17 people were selected. I was among the “chosen”.

In truth, a creator is never satisfied with themselves. Because creation means ceaseless searching. And a person who is searching is never satisfied with themselves.

There is no society without literature. Literature itself is an eternal shrine. Moreover, a true creator bows only before the word. To deceive a divine field like literature with petty, childish talk is a betrayal of the word. And betrayal has never been forgiven in any era. Before the precious head of Nodirabegim placed on the chopping block of ignorance, before the enlightened spirits of the greats like Qodiriy, before the altar of the word where Cho'lpon and Usmon Nosir prostrated, one must tell only and only the truth. If you laugh, your laughter should be real; if you cry, your tears should be real—they should be yours alone.

In reality, literature has no nationality, but literature is the mirror of life that shows that a nation exists in the world. To put it succinctly, a true creator has neither a nationality nor an age. There is only the true and the false creator. If there were impartial criticism to cultivate the reader's taste to distinguish this, this would not be a problem either.

Indeed, I must mention the “Nihol” literary circle in the city of Kokand, which occupied an important place in my development. In our time, the late Habibullo Sayid G'ani led this circle. The activities of that circle and the literary atmosphere there still tug at my heart today. Creators such as Anvar Yunus, Komil Jo'ra, Azimjon Azizov, Dilbar Hamzaxo'jayeva, Nosir Zohid, Maqsuda Egamberdiyeva, and Abdulatif Turdialiyev enjoyed the creative atmosphere of that circle. In my opinion, the traditions of master-disciple in such circles today seem to have been damaged. The respect for mentors seems to have been “bruised” in some sense...

I value the spirit, self-confidence, and determination in today's youth, I even envy them. But... in my opinion, this boldness seems to be losing its positive essence and approaching impudence. In our time, there were spiritual criteria for writing poetry, publishing it, and releasing a book. When we met face-to-face in life with poets who had won our devotion with lines that occupied our hearts, we would be so excited that we would even lose ourselves. We tried not to be rude towards them. Being noticed by mentors was a miracle for us. Unfortunately, today's young people, while still fledglings before the mentors, are failing to be noticed before they even have a chance to fly. And the most painful thing is that they are not even afraid of being ignored. We would leave the stairs of each of the publishing houses located at 30 Navoiy Street with a thousand tremors and hesitations, thinking carefully. Reciting a poem in a gathering where mentors were present was equivalent to passing a great test. Because respect for the mentor, the blessing that reaches the disciple from the mentor, and the mentor's approval—this is a spiritual treasure that cannot be exchanged for anything.

Here I must also mention a topic that makes my heart ache. I am frightened to see the indifference of our youth towards the word, and how they use divine, heavy words casually. It is strange that words like “death”, “undertaker”, “demise”, “shroud”, “coffin”, “grave”, and “cemetery” have become simple sentences that can be said freely by some youth; it has turned into mere wordplay and formalism.

I have witnessed the tragedies that may lie behind this boastfulness and verse-mongering several times in my life. Didn't the grief of Muhammad Yusuf, who said “Perhaps my father will bury me”, the fate of Shavkat Rahmon, who predicted his own destiny by saying “I will undoubtedly be torn apart”, and the lines of A'zam O'ktam, “What if I am gone, the Uzbeks will not have one less poet”, determine their own fates?!

A philosopher did not say “Think before you think!” for no reason. But one worries for the future of young writers who do not even think while speaking, and who write without thinking: “Curse me, father, curse me and call my demise.” Recently, hearing a girl's line, “poetry is my sin”, I rebuked her. Because we, the yesterday's generation, are also responsible for the works that today's youth are creating. Because there are no strangers among the literary folk to one another. Furthermore, as the great Saadi said, humanity is “members of one body”.

My lines, “Perhaps the edge of one word is fate”, are not my form, but my content. And content belongs entirely to the heart. And the heart is the kingdom of noble feelings. If so, let us convey our hearts, our beautiful feelings to our readers in a beautiful state. Let us share bright moods with them. Let those who read our writings be refreshed as if sipping a handful of water in the heat of summer. Any formalism, verse-mongering, and empty boastfulness are alien to our blood and our values.

I also wanted to say one more thing here. From ancient times until recent days, there has been a tradition of poets writing poetic letters to each other. For example, the letters written by Uvaysiy to Nodira, Furqat to Muqimiy, Sobir Abdulla to Charxiy and Habibiy... These letters make one nostalgic because they invited the creator to a unique kind of creative debate.

Regarding my family, I must say that I am extremely lucky in this regard. I was born into a household that valued literature and the word. Perhaps the passion for poetry in my blood began with my father strumming the dutar and humming the “oq bilak oyim anjonlik” tune with pleasure. My father's contribution lies in the folkloric nature of my writings and their harmony with folk melodies. I see my father's sincere and bold face, his delightful heart mixed with passion and wonder, who was able to plant the embers of love for the world of literature and art into the hearts of us children, despite the demanding responsibilities of his leadership roles throughout his life. But when I feel Sufism and an inclination towards it in my soul, it seems that my mother's serene, innocent, and luminous presence is bestowing inspiration upon me. By the way, in all the precious memories of my mother remaining in my heart, my mother's loving heart and her endless devotion shine through. My mother was a true owner of a loving heart. This love became even more evident when reading the stories of Mashrab or when the biographies of Ghawth al-A'zam were recited. This love would appear plainly when she encountered the sudden blows of destiny; thanks to her incomparable love for the Creator, my mother would meet any tragedy with an unbearable submission. Even when my 19-year-old sister was brutally murdered, and six months later in the tragic death of my seven-year-old brother, instead of tearing her hair and wailing, she welcomed this fate with true patience, crumbling from within. My mother left me a great lesson as a legacy—the ability to emerge from any bad situation in life with dignity. My mother's saying, “A complaint about His creature is a complaint about the Creator,” taught me never to complain about anything. The passion in my soul for the word, for poetry, for life, the love for living and nurturing, is a great legacy left to me by my mother, an inexhaustible treasure. The rest are lessons given by life.

As for my children, as I emphasized in one of my triplets, “O ignorant one, your child will not do what you say, but what you do”, an artist's child becomes an artist, and a craftsman's child becomes a craftsman, because they do what their parents do. A poet speaks, therefore a poet's child does not necessarily become a poet. But even if my children do not write poetry, the innocence of their hearts keeps their lives nurtured.