Nuriya Ismailov

In the quiet hills of Kyrgyzstan, I've spent a lifetime toiling in the fields, the earth beneath my hands a constant companion. Now, at 87 years old, I look back on those years with a mixture of pride and sadness. The money was never plentiful, but through farming, we managed to put food on the table – a small comfort amidst the harsh realities of life.

Yet, despite our best efforts, tragedy has been a cruel companion. Three of my six children were taken from me, their absence a gaping wound that time has failed to heal. My daughter, so young and fragile, succumbed to illness brought on by malnutrition and infection. Her tiny heart ceased to beat, leaving us shattered in its wake.

Then, my eldest son, a seasoned mountaineer, met his end in a merciless avalanche. His loss shook us to the core, a reminder of the unpredictable whims of fate. And my second eldest, haunted by grief, sought solace in the bottle until his body could bear no more.

Death, it seems, is a constant shadow, lurking in the corners of our lives. The passing of my husband only added to the weight of sorrow that hangs heavy upon my heart. In the quiet moments, I find myself mourning not just for them, but for the friends who have slipped away, leaving behind only memories.

Yet, amidst the darkness, there is light – my three remaining children, a steadfast anchor in the storm. Their love and support sustain me, a beacon of hope in the midst of despair. For them, I am grateful beyond words.

Life in Kyrgyzstan is not easy, marked by poverty and hardship at every turn. But in the depths of my soul, there is a flicker of hope – a prayer that perhaps, one day, my grandchildren will know a better life, free from the shadows that have haunted my own.