Javohir Akramov


Channel's geo and language: Uzbekistan, Uzbek
Category: Blogs


I talk about business, politics, and people
Chief Operating Officer @unicrafters
Economics at Georgetown

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@javohirakramov


Will be speaking today at 6 pm sharp Tashkent time on my experience of studying at an American college in a Middle Eastern country.

I rarely talk about admissions or college experience, so if you are looking to apply to college this year or you are just interested in getting to know about studying in Qatar, tune in. I will be speaking in both English and Uzbek.

Also, do join other speakers' sessions.

Location: @top100_uni

@javohirakramov


Forward from: Alisher Sadullaev
⚡️Yilning so‘nggi va eng exclusive marafoni spikerlari bilan tanishing!

12 soat davomida, onlayn tarzda, turli xil davlatlarning top universitetlari talabalari bilan suhbatlashamiz. Ushbu talabalar ro‘yxati bilan tanishishingiz mumkin.

Kechagi post izohlarida ko'rsatilgan Garvard, Stanford, Yale hamda Princeton kabi TOP universitetlarida ta'lim olayotgan yoshlar bilan muloqot qila olasiz. O'zingizni qiziqtirgan savollarni ularga bera olasiz. Umid qilamanki, Sizlar uchun juda foydali muloqot bo'ladi.

Sana: 20-dekabr.
Manzil: https://t.me/Top100_Uni


Forward from: Mirzokhid's Blog
Chatgpt uchun promt)
Roast me as hard as you can basing on what you know about me. Everything you know.
Go hard, I can take it


By @zokirovdev






"Nadia! I've brought you presents from Kuwait, lots of presents. I'll wait till you can leave your bed, completely well and healed, and you'll come to my house and I'll give them to you. I've bought you the red trousers you wrote and asked me for. Yes, I've bought them."

It was a lie, born of the tense situation, but as I uttered it I felt that I was speaking the truth for the first time. Nadia trembled as though she had an electric shock and lowered her head in a terrible silence. I felt her tears wetting the back of my hand.

"Say something, Nadia! Don't you want the red trousers?" She lifted her gaze to me and made as if to speak, but then she stopped, gritted her teeth and I heard her voice again, coming from faraway.

"Uncle!"

She stretched out her hand, lifted the white coverlet with her fingers and pointed to her leg, amputated from the top of the thigh.

My friend ... Never shall I forget Nadia's leg, amputated from the top of the thigh. No! Nor shall I forget the grief which had moulded her face and merged into its traits for ever. I went out of the hospital in Gaza that day, my hand clutched in silent derision on the two pounds I had brought with me to give Nadia. The blazing sun filled the streets with the colour of blood. And Gaza was brand new, Mustafa! You and I never saw it like this. The stone piled up at the beginning of the Shajiya quarter where we lived had a meaning, and they seemed to have been put there for no other reason but to explain it. This Gaza in which we had lived and with whose good people we had spent seven years of defeat was something new. It seemed to me just a beginning. I don't know why I thought it was just a beginning. I imagined that the main street that I walked along on the way back home was only the beginning of a long, long road leading to Safad. Everything in this Gaza throbbed with sadness which was not confined to weeping. It was a challenge: more than that it was something like reclamation of the amputated leg!

I went out into the streets of Gaza, streets filled with blinding sunlight. They told me that Nadia had lost her leg when she threw herself on top of her little brothers and sisters to protect them from the bombs and flames that had fastened their claws into the house. Nadia could have saved herself, she could have run away, rescued her leg. But she didn't.

Why?

No, my friend, I won't come to Sacramento, and I've no regrets. No, and nor will I finish what we began together in childhood. This obscure feeling that you had as you left Gaza, this small feeling must grow into a giant deep within you. It must expand, you must seek it in order to find yourself, here among the ugly debris of defeat.

I won't come to you. But you, return to us! Come back, to learn from Nadia's leg, amputated from the top of the thigh, what life is and what existence is worth.

Come back, my friend! We are all waiting for you.


In the middle of the year, that year, the Jews bombarded the central district of Sabha and attacked Gaza, our Gaza, with bombs and flame-throwers. That event might have made some change in my routine, but there was nothing for me to take much notice of; I was going to leave. this Gaza behind me and go to California where I would live for myself, my own self which had suffered so long. I hated Gaza and its inhabitants. Everything in the amputated town reminded me of failed pictures painted in grey by a sick man. Yes, I would send my mother and my brother's widow and her children a meagre sum to help them to live, but I would liberate myself from this last tie too, there in green California, far from the reek of defeat which for seven years had filled my nostrils. The sympathy which bound me to my brother's children, their mother and mine would never be enough to justify my tragedy in taking this perpendicular dive. It mustn't drag me any further down than it already had. I must flee!

You know these feelings, Mustafa, because you've really experienced them. What is this ill-defined tie we had with Gaza which blunted our enthusiasm for flight? Why didn't we analyse the matter in such away as to give it a clear meaning? Why didn't we leave this defeat with its wounds behind us and move on to a brighter future which would give us deeper consolation? Why? We didn't exactly know.

When I went on holiday in June and assembled all my possessions, longing for the sweet departure, the start towards those little things which give life a nice, bright meaning, I found Gaza just as I had known it, closed like the introverted lining of a rusted snail-shell thrown up by the waves on the sticky, sandy shore by the slaughter-house. This Gaza was more cramped than the mind of a sleeper in the throes of a fearful nightmare, with its narrow streets which had their bulging balconies...this Gaza! But what are the obscure causes that draw a man to his family, his house, his memories, as a spring draws a small flock of mountain goats? I don't know. All I know is that I went to my mother in our house that morning. When I arrived my late brother's wife met me there and asked me,weeping, if I would do as her wounded daughter, Nadia, in Gaza hospital wished and visit her that evening. Do you know Nadia, my brother's beautiful thirteen-year-old daughter?

That evening I bought a pound of apples and set out for the hospital to visit Nadia. I knew that there was something about it that my mother and my sister-in-law were hiding from me, something which their tongues could not utter, something strange which I could not put my finger on. I loved Nadia from habit, the same habit that made me love all that generation which had been so brought up on defeat and displacement that it had come to think that a happy life was a kind of social deviation.

What happened at that moment? I don't know. I entered the white room very calm. Ill children have something of saintliness, and how much more so if the child is ill as result of cruel, painful wounds. Nadia was lying on her bed, her back propped up on a big pillow over which her hair was spread like a thick pelt. There was profound silence in her wide eyes and a tear always shining in the depths of her black pupils. Her face was calm and still but eloquent as the face of a tortured prophet might be. Nadia was still a child, but she seemed more than a child, much more, and older than a child, much older.

"Nadia!"

I've no idea whether I was the one who said it, or whether it was someone else behind me. But she raised her eyes to me and I felt them dissolve me like a piece of sugar that had fallen into a hot cup of tea. '

Together with her slight smile I heard her voice. "Uncle! Have you just come from Kuwait?"

Her voice broke in her throat, and she raised herself with the help of her hands and stretched out her neck towards me. I patted her back and sat down near her.


Letter from Gaza | Ghassan Kanafani

Dear Mustafa,

I have now received your letter, in which you tell me that you've done everything necessary to enable me to stay with you in Sacramento. I've also received news that I have been accepted in the department of Civil Engineering in the University of California. I must thank you for everything, my friend. But it'll strike you as rather odd when I proclaim this news to you -- and make no doubt about it, I feel no hesitation at all, in fact I am pretty well positive that I have never seen things so clearly as I do now. No, my friend, I have changed my mind. I won't follow you to "the land where there is greenery, water and lovely faces" as you wrote. No, I'll stay here, and I won't ever leave.

I am really upset that our lives won't continue to follow the same course, Mustafa. For I can almost hear you reminding me of our vow to go on together, and of the way we used to shout: "We'll get rich!" But there's nothing I can do, my friend. Yes, I still remember the day when I stood in the hall of Cairo airport, pressing your hand and staring at the frenzied motor. At that moment everything was rotating in time with the ear-splitting motor, and you stood in front of me, your round face silent.

Your face hadn't changed from the way it used to be when you were growing up in the Shajiya quarter of Gaza, apart from those slight wrinkles. We grew up together, understanding each other completely and we promised to go on together till the end. But...

"There's a quarter of an hour left before the plane takes off. Don't look into space like that. Listen! You'll go to Kuwait next year, and you'll save enough from your salary to uproot you from Gaza and transplant you to California. We started off together and we must carry on. . ."

At that moment I was watching your rapidly moving lips. That was always your manner of speaking, without commas or full stops. But in an obscure way I felt that you were not completely happy with your flight. You couldn't give three good reasons for it. I too suffered from this wrench, but the clearest thought was: why don't we abandon this Gaza and flee? Why don't we? Your situation had begun to improve, however. The ministry of Education in Kuwait had given you a contract though it hadn't given me one. In the trough of misery where I existed you sent me small sums of money. You wanted me to consider them as loans. because you feared that I would feel slighted. You knew my family circumstances in and out; you knew that my meagre salary in the UNRWA schools was inadequate to support my mother, my brother's widow and her four children.

"Listen carefully. Write to me every day... every hour... every minute! The plane's just leaving. Farewell! Or rather, till we meet again!"

Your cold lips brushed my cheek, you turned your face away from me towards the plane, and when you looked at me again I could see your tears.

Later the Ministry of Education in Kuwait gave me a contract. There's no need to repeat to you how my life there went in detail. I always wrote to you about everything. My life there had a gluey, vacuous quality as though I were a small oyster, lost in oppressive loneliness, slowly struggling with a future as dark as the beginning of the night, caught in a rotten routine, a spewed-out combat with time. Everything was hot and sticky. There was a slipperiness to my whole life, it was all a hankering for the end of the month.


Now that we have the final results, you can check out the full details of how he made it back to the office:

https://apnews.com/projects/election-results-2024/

@javohirakramov


People want to be sold a story—a story of better jobs, better wages, better living conditions. A brighter future, a greater country. They don’t want to hear long, elaborate economic or social policies; they just want someone to say, “I will fix it.”

She seemingly checked all the boxes that would give her an edge with minority voters. But apparently, that didn’t happen. Instead, people put their faith in a convicted felon facing 34 counts, with a long history of falsifying business documents, ties to controversial figures, and multiple accusations of SA.

None of that—none of his past behavior, his problematic remarks, or his criminal record—mattered. At the end of the day, he is the man who managed to sell people the dream that he could fix it. That he could end wars in 24 hours, keep prices down, create jobs, and make the country great again. He might not be as eloquent as the prosecutor, but he succeeds at acting like a common man and speaking like one, even though he’s spent his entire life in a higher income bracket.

He managed to get his message across better than she did, and I think that was the deciding factor. At times, her campaign seemed more like “vote for me because you don’t want him to win.” But he did.

Going from multi-billionaire to president, losing an election, getting convicted, serving time, coming back, running for office again, and winning by a margin of 4 million votes might be one of the most legendary runs a politician has ever seen. That man now holds the most powerful position in the world. Someone who was laughed at as a clown in the last election cycle is now president. Again. Love him or hate him, you can’t deny him.

Hopefully, this presidency will unfold better than the last one.

@javohirakramov


Next four years are Republican paradise.

With presidency, senate, and house secured, Trump is about to gain enormous power.

Positive, negative, mixed feelings?

@javohirakramov


Tak, tak, tak. Voqealar rivojini diqqat bilan kuzatamiz.

@javohirakramov






US Elections are coming up next week.

This has to be the most consequential political event on 2024 calendar.

If the only things you know about these two candidates is the fact that Kamala is a woman and Trump is a billionaire, you can't not watch these two videos which will give you a short intro to US Presidential Elections Candidates.

Donald Trump
Kamala Harris

PS. Hypothetically speaking, if you were a US citizen (or if you are one), who'd you vote for and why?

@javohirakramov


You see similar dynamics in Arabia, where until the 1920s, people primarily identified as Ottoman or Arab or based on the their residence, not as Lebanese, Qatari, Saudi, or Jordanian. Nationalism doesn’t arise in a vacuum; it’s often a response to foreign influence or power. Zionism rose in response to European anti-Semitism, and the Palestinian national movement partly rose in response to the influx of Zionists and Jews between the 1880s and 1920s. American nationalism likely emerged in response to British control. Americans are an imagined community themselves—the true “Americans” are the indigenous populations, who were largely displaced by European settlers (who likely never thought of themselves as “American” in the beginning). Ironically, the term “American” comes from a European, Amerigo Vespucci.

Welcome to my TED Talk (or a daily rant, to be precise).

@javohirakramov


This is controversial. If you ain't open-minded, disregard this post.

Some of my classmates from North Africa despise French because of colonial history. Should I feel the same way about Russian? I grew up speaking Russian, listening to Russian songs, reading Russian books—I spent the first 14 or 15 years of my life in a Russian-speaking environment.

Putting the war in Ukraine aside, I feel we should separate culture from politics when thinking about Russian culture. It sometimes frustrates me when Ukrainians get offended if a Russian song is played. I try to understand and relate to their perspective, but at the same time, language and culture are distinct from politics. Putin’s war machine is quite different from the general sentiment of Russians or from their artistic culture. Some Russians may not openly speak out against the war because they fear for their lives, social status, or the well-being of their families. For many Russians who struggle just to make a living, politics is a low priority. Yes, people are inherently political, but when your stomach is empty, and your home is cold, who has time for politics?

I am fully aware of the Russian Empire’s legacy in my country, but Uzbek conquerors also left legacies in other countries. Yes, the chronology differs, but the emirs who ruled before the Russian conquest in the 19th century committed their own share of atrocities and made life difficult for ordinary people.

I am not remotely Russian, yet Russian has become part of my identity, whether I like it or not. Listening to Russian songs makes me feel good; I enjoy reading Russian literature and consuming Russian content online. No matter how much I disagree with Russian politics or its history of imperialism, I still feel sympathy for Russian culture and language.

Even the Uzbek language today is written in Latin letters, which are far from our "traditional culture." In fact, it was Kemal Atatürk who first adopted the Latin script, replacing Arabic script in Turkey as part of his Westernization efforts. We can’t claim the Latin alphabet as ours either. The legacy of Navoi, which we take pride in, was written in Arabic script, not Latin. So, in this sense, using Cyrillic, Latin, or Arabic scripts doesn’t necessarily define authenticity—they are all, in a way, foreign. Arabic script also came through conquest, though perhaps differently than Russian influence.

What is identity anyway? Isn’t it just a collection of “lego pieces” that came together for various reasons to form what we call identity? What is an Uzbek identity? Which parts of it are truly “Uzbek,” and which are borrowed? How do we define what’s “ours” versus “foreign” when so much of “our” culture and identity consists of foreign influences or adaptations? Does it even make sense to focus so heavily on Uzbek culture when it has evolved as a mixture of influences from other cultures?

Cultural and national identities are fluid. Yes, ethnic groups in Central Asia had distinct linguistic and cultural identities before Soviet rule, though modern “national” identities were influenced by Soviet classification. A 19th-century resident of Kokand likely didn’t think of himself as “Uzbek” but rather as a subject of the Kokand Khanate. When did we start thinking that Uzbeks are so different from other people that we should be seen as a distinct nation from Turkmen or Tajiks? Uzbeks vary greatly across regions. There are Tajiks who look Uzbek, Turkmen who look Uzbek, and vice versa. Ethnicity might be a concept, but it’s still questionable. Physical features might be shaped more by geography and environment than by what labels people assign. I am in no means saying not to identify oneself as a particular nation, but rather don't think of nations as very different, irreconcilable.

@javohirakramov


Forward from: Khumoyun Suyunov
Two hundred years ago, the youth from Pushkin's generation generally avoided speaking Russian. During that era, Russian language was not deemed suitable for engaging in friendly conversations on diverse topics. Young nobles and elites primarily learned French, as it was the language spoken by both their parents and their tutors. While Russian was solely used by peasants, it existed only in dialectal forms, not as a literary language. The esteemed Russian writer and poet, Alexander Pushkin, masterfully crafted a language that merged the vibrancy of casual dialogue, the grandeur of hymns, and the precision of expression. Since Pushkin's linguistic contributions, the Russian language has been embraced universally across Russia and beyond.

Fast forward to today, what we see is that entire languages - vibrant, distinct tongues - being willingly swapped for the dull sheen of dominant language. And not because it's better or more beautiful, no! Simply because it’s “convenient” which is the great excuse for linguistic laziness. People have inherited such a colonial mindset that they take pride in speaking the language of their colonizers, thinking it makes them sound cool, worldly even. Spoiler: It doesn’t. Let me remind you: the very first, most distinctive feature of any culture is its language. Without it, the essence of identity begins to fade, leaving behind a cheap imitation, so don't be walking advertisements for cultural erasure.

P.S. And, ironically enough, this entire post was written in English.

@pursuit_of_truth


My own private basic income - Karl Widerquist.

The most common objection to basic income is that it’s supposedly wrong to give things to people who don’t work for it, when actually, the economy already gives billions of dollars of unearned income to people who are already wealthy.’ I have a private basic income – a small, regular cash income without means test or work requirement. It’s probably large enough to meet my basic needs. And I got it thanks to privilege, nepotism, and two big lucky breaks. My first big lucky break happened in 2009 when Georgetown University hired me as a philosophy professor on their campus in Qatar. Georgetown-Qatar, funded entirely by the Qatar government, has to pay an enormous premium to get faculty to agree to live and work in Qatar. I get paid three times as much as my wife. I teach half as many classes. She’s a full professor. I’m only an associate. Qatar can pay more than US universities because of its own series of lucky breaks that put it in control of enormously valuable resources. Its position today comes largely from decisions made about a century ago, as the Ottoman Empire was breaking up. Britain and France arbitrarily drew lines on the map to create what became the states of the Middle East. Those lines eventually gave some of those states enormous amounts of oil and gas and left others desperately poor. The joy of options I ‘earn’ my salary by doing a job few others are both willing and able to do. To some extent wages compensate for other disadvantages of the job. But this equalisation is only partial and, more importantly, it only occurs among people with similar options. I had better options than most people in the world. My white, American upper-middle class privilege gave me the opportunity to get the qualifications and the flexibility to take this job. For every highly paid professional ‘expat’ in Qatar like me there are maybe eight or ten extra-low paid ‘migrant labourers’, some of whom make as little as $200 a month. They live in dorms for years at a time, separated from their families. They are unfree to quit or to change employers. They are unfree to leave the country without their employers’ permission. I see these workers often. They clean the toilets at my university.

PS. Karl is him.

@javohirakramov

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