An article by the well-known political scientist Kudratilla Rafikov titled “My Soulful Pain…” was published in the October 2 issue of Rossiyskaya Gazeta. The author reflects on Uzbekistan’s place in world history and culture, analyzing the significance of reviving the country’s spiritual heritage and the concept of a Third Renaissance, linking these ideas to contemporary reforms and the initiatives of President Shavkat Mirziyoyev. With the author’s permission, we present the full text of this publication to our readers.

My Soulful Pain…
Kudratilla Rafikov, Political Scientist.

At first glance, the title of this article may seem somber and give the text a pessimistic tone. However, it contains neither condemnation nor reproach. It is not about denigrating the past or harboring resentment toward those who came before us. Nor is it about emphasizing the value of today’s bright days and achievements by contrasting them with the darker pages of history. Yet a natural question arises: if everything seems to be going well, why does this pain persist?

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Albert Camus once wrote that myths cannot survive on their own; they need us to breathe life into them. Even if a single person answers their call, myths have the power to nourish our spirit with their timeless vitality. It is our responsibility to keep them alive, to ensure they do not fade into oblivion, so that one day they may be revived.

Although my reflections do not entirely align with those of the French writer, they are closely related. Over the years, we too have lost touch with our legendary history, culture, ancestors, and our true place in the world. We have grown accustomed to the perception of ourselves as “third-rate,” as if our country were some distant, marginal place in Asia. The bitterest truth is that our cultural and historical image on the world stage has dissolved like water absorbed by sand. The very words “Uzbek” and “Uzbekistan” have been reduced to mere dots on the map, stripped of their deeper meaning. The suffix “-stan” in our country’s name has been lumped together with many others and is often spoken of interchangeably — sometimes even with a hint of disdain.

If we approach these reflections more seriously, it is worth recalling the words of a well-known Western political scientist, who once remarked: “For most people abroad, the homeland of Ibn Sina and Al-Beruni is not seen as a center of civilization, but merely as a troubled region one must pass through on the way to somewhere else.” He was right, and there was no reason to take offense at his assessment — unfortunately, reality at the time offered little to contradict it.

 

However, as the political scientist rightly observed, Uzbekistan — with its spiritual and cultural heritage and its rich tradition of statehood — did not deserve to fade into obscurity among the other “-stans.”

It was here that two of the greatest renaissances were born — the Islamic and the Timurid — both of which left a lasting mark on the history of all humankind. This land once hosted the centers of empires that ruled over half the world.

But where is that history now? Where is the memory that should inspire our pride and spiritual greatness?

Anyone even slightly familiar with our history and heritage cannot help but reflect on this question, while a slow, bitter pain of spiritual decline begins to grow in the heart.

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I believe that competent and enlightened people understand the direction in which Uzbekistan is moving today and the profound processes taking place in the country. Yet I think not everyone is able to notice one very important detail. I still firmly hold to my earlier conviction: Uzbekistan and its people, who for many years were forced to endure hardship and trials, are now not only strengthening their state sovereignty. We are reclaiming what was once forgotten and mercilessly torn from our hearts — the memory of our great past, the culture, and the heritage of our ancestors. This noble endeavor is not merely about reviving history; it is about rediscovering the nation’s true identity, regaining spiritual strength, and achieving renewal. This is where our truth and objective justice lie.

I believe the time has come to speak frankly about an issue directly related to this subject. When discussions began in the country about the Third Renaissance and this idea was voiced at the highest level, some responded with irony. And it would be false to say that such views have completely disappeared — they still exist today.

The problem is that such people only see the surface of politics without delving into its essence. The strength of President Shavkat Mirziyoyev’s reformist vision lies in the fact that he has never flaunted his sincere love for the people and the Motherland; he has kept it in his heart and expressed it through his actions. He proved himself superior to those who attempted to respond with irony or mockery. But anyone who closely follows his work can see what truly matters — the inner strength, the vision, and the inexhaustible energy that drive the leader of our nation.

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“Why did we establish the Center for Islamic Civilization? To immortalize the glory and greatness of our people in history. So that everyone who enters this place and then leaves will bow in respect before this nation.” This statement was made by the President during a meeting with local leaders on the eve of the recent Independence Day celebrations. The following excerpt comes from one of his speeches in 2023. At that time, he said: “Looking back at the past, we must acknowledge a bitter truth: not so long ago, the word ‘Uzbek’ evoked the image of a person working from dawn to dusk in a cotton field. Sadly, we had sunk to such a level. The cotton monopoly became a disaster — a curse for our people. It dried up the Aral Sea, damaged the environment, and undermined the economy and education. Several generations were condemned to semi-literacy. Even today, we are still dealing with the consequences.”

At first glance, these two quotations may seem unrelated — they differ both in time and in content. But their placement next to each other is intentional: it allows us to better understand the President’s inner world, his aspirations, and the true meaning behind his words.

If one looks more closely at the subtext, it becomes clear that an underlying, often unnoticed rhetorical thread connects these statements into a single, coherent message. The President’s words about the Renaissance and spiritual revival are not mere rhetoric; they form a carefully structured concept with a solid foundation and a clear strategy.

It is worth noting that the idea of creating the Center for Islamic Civilization — the central theme of this article — was first voiced by the President at the very beginning of his leadership in 2017, and the implementation of this massive initiative began immediately.

Since then, the idea of a Third Renaissance, along with a renewed attitude toward our historical and cultural heritage, the eras of Islamic and Timurid renaissances, and the memory of our great ancestors, has become the core of Shavkat Mirziyoyev’s policy.

At times, it seems that his inner world is filled with a single, profound aspiration — to restore the dignity of the nation and the Motherland, and to return the greatness that was once humiliated and utterly disregarded.

I have often heard Shavkat Miromonovich deliver passionate speeches about the history of our people and our homeland. He would ask: “Why is it that when someone says the words ‘Uzbek’ or ‘Uzbekistan’, people imagine nothing more than cotton and pilaf, skullcaps and chapan robes, teapots with cotton patterns, teahouses and hospitality? Do we really have nothing else to show the world, nothing else to declare about ourselves? Why don’t we present to the world our great past — the legacy of our ancestors who conquered the world with their science and the light of their knowledge? Why do we shy away from this memory, hide it, pretend it doesn’t exist, and hesitate to speak the names of our great figures and openly showcase their heritage? After all, it was our ancestors who gave humanity lessons ranging from mathematics to medicine, from astronomy to philosophy and music — they laid the foundations for many modern sciences. They built empires stretching from the Altai to the Mediterranean, from Egypt to India. So how have we come to a point where the shoulders of our children are slumped, their heads bowed, and their eyes cast to the ground?..”

Almost thirty years have passed since I first heard these words from Shavkat Miromonovich. There is no doubt that this inner pain — pain for the fate of the nation — shaped in him a devoted patriot, a true son of his people and his land.

And indeed, his inner pain was not contrived — it was entirely justified. With a certain degree of rhetorical passion, one might even say that at times it felt as though history itself had been unfair to us. But there is no need to prove what is already clear: the scientific ideas and discoveries of our great ancestors once opened new chapters not only in the exact sciences, but also in history, geography, philosophy, culture, art, and architecture, enriching global civilization.

It is enough to recall: Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi laid the foundations of the modern numerical system; Abu Ali ibn Sina wrote his immortal The Canon of Medicine; Abu Rayhan Beruni, using a simple astrolabe, calculated the radius of the Earth with astonishing accuracy; and Christopher Columbus relied on the calculations of Ahmad al-Fergani when setting out to discover America. All of this testifies to the boundless intellect and extraordinary scientific legacy of our ancestors.

It is no coincidence that Samarkand paper was once considered the standard of quality, and the luxurious interiors of European palaces and cathedrals were decorated with silk from Fergana. These are powerful reminders of the immense spiritual and material heritage left to us.

An even more striking example is provided by the American scholar Frederick Starr. Speaking about the First Renaissance in Central Asia, he notes: “The last powerful burst of cultural energy in this region occurred under the Seljuk Turks and lasted for more than a century, starting in 1037. From their eastern capitals — Merw (in present-day Turkmenistan) and Nishapur (on the border between Afghanistan and Iran) — they supported scholars and inventors across a wide range of fields. Among the great achievements of that time was the invention of the double dome, capable of spanning vast spaces. The earliest examples can still be seen today among the abandoned ruins of Merv. From there, this architectural innovation traveled the world — from the dome of Filippo Brunelleschi in Florence to St. Nicholas Cathedral in St. Petersburg, and eventually found expression in the dome of the U.S. Capitol in Washington.”

This is a fair and powerful acknowledgment: our ancestors were also great builders. Yet who today, apart from a handful of specialists, knows or recognizes this? Who tells the world that our nation once possessed such immense creative and intellectual potential? I remember how, even back then, this pain — this unspoken question — was visible in Shavkat Miromonovich’s words and in his eyes.

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A mid-20th-century European philosopher, reflecting on the wars and calamities that had shaken the continent and the world, once remarked: “If, in such difficult times, artists still paint peaceful scenes and depict sleeping hens, for example, it means that the belief in beauty, creativity, peace, and goodness still lives on in the human heart.”

Almost a century later, I would add: today, when the world stands on the brink of nuclear catastrophe (and our region borders four nuclear powers), when one of the states aspiring to dominate the global order openly discusses turning its “Ministry of Defense” into a “Ministry of War” — do I not have the right to ask: what kind of heart must a person have to speak of civilizations, cultural heritage, art, and eternal values in such times, and to have the courage to bring those ideals to life? And can this question truly be considered inappropriate? And if we recall Camus, who wrote that myths must not die and that there must be at least one person willing to respond to their call and breathe new life into them — seeing this as a historical necessity — then what power could possibly stand in the way?

Naturally, the topic we are discussing lends itself to such figurative language and philosophical reflection. At its core lies not only the desire to defend national and homeland interests, but also the aspiration to direct our thoughts and feelings toward universal human ideals — to sound the bell of awakening over a world growing increasingly weary and dull, to remind it that goodness and beauty still exist. We will return to these reflections a little later.

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Today, it is worth raising another issue that is especially important for us. Regrettably, we must acknowledge that when the term “Muslim civilization” is discussed at the global level — a civilization that has secured a prominent place in world cultural history — both our country and our people are frequently marginalized. Yet it is we who have every reason to see ourselves as heirs to this rich heritage, one that holds truly universal value. Yes, Baghdad was the formal center of the Caliphate. And while some try to portray this great Renaissance as a phenomenon tied exclusively to the Middle East, and its outstanding scholars as part of the Persian or Arab world, the reality is this: the historical center and the main intellectual foundation of that civilization were located here, in our region. This is a fact supported by historical documentation.

Frederick Starr articulated this observation particularly well in one of his works:

“Although Caliph al-Ma’mun was appointed as early as 818, he refused to leave Central Asia and governed the Muslim world from the unique city of Merv, located in present-day Turkmenistan. It was only later, when he moved to Baghdad, that he took with him not only Turkic troops but also the cultural wealth of Central Asia, formed through a fusion of Turkic and Persian traditions. This move from Central Asia to the Middle East essentially repeated the ancient phenomenon of the ‘migration of minds’ — from Greek centers of knowledge to Rome.”

Paul Wordsworth, a historian of antiquity at Oxford University, makes a similar point about Central Asia’s past, emphasizing that it once played a pivotal role in shaping the world order. In an interview with the BBC, he said: “It is commonly believed that the vast expanses of Eurasia have always been closely interconnected. This is a misconception. Central Asia consists of the rugged peaks of the world’s highest mountains and wild, turbulent rivers that people struggled to cross for centuries.

Already by the middle of the first millennium, merchants had begun to carve routes through this challenging landscape, transforming the region into the heart of global trade. But Central Asia was more than just a crossroads for caravans — it became a cradle of science and creativity. Scholars traveled from city to city, exchanging discoveries. Bukhara and Samarkand, along the Silk Road, became centers of knowledge comparable to Oxford and Cambridge in their time. When people speak of the Silk Road, they usually think of China or the Roman Empire, as if everything in between passively existed under foreign influence. But the true history of Central Asia shatters these stereotypes: it was here, through the power of reason and a distinctive culture, that the entire Eurasian landmass was woven into a single whole.”

The tragedy, however, is that, as Wordsworth rightly notes, our region has for centuries remained in the shadow of outside influences. And the most bitter part is that even today, some try to portray us as the “backyard” of some great power, once again pushing us to the margins of world history.

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It must be admitted that our perception of history has changed over time. At certain moments, we became its passive captives; at others, we took comfort simply in taking pride in our past. We reshaped history to suit our needs, cutting and tailoring it like a piece of cloth. Many still remember how this was done in the Soviet period. But even after independence, despite the change in political realities, no fundamental transformation took place. To be fair, there were some discussions and initiatives, but they emerged sporadically rather than as part of a deep, internal rethinking.

One symbolic example is the architectural ensemble that begins in Shahrisabz, passes through Samarkand, and finds its culmination in the heart of the capital — the majestic bronze monument of Sahibkiran. This initiative, taken in the early years of independence, reflected a renewed respect for our great ancestor and his legacy. The spacious central square was named after Amir Temur, and the State Museum of the History of the Temurids was opened nearby. These were not just commemorative acts — they clearly articulated the state’s position towards its historical heritage, recognizing Temur’s figure and the grandeur of his empire as symbols of restored national independence. It is worth recalling that this idea was first put forward by the Jadids in modern history. Their vision extended beyond Temur himself: it embraced figures such as Kok Turk Attila, Bilge Qaghan, Uzbek Khan, and even the controversial Chinggis Khan — whose complex legacy nonetheless remained part of the national consciousness.

Frankly speaking, for a former Soviet republic that had just gained freedom, this seemed like an absolutely natural and even commendable step. But some exceptions disturbed this tranquility. Back then, a picture was established in the mass consciousness, albeit unofficially: our history begins and ends with Temur and his dynasty. Yes, this statement sounds harsh, but the reality differed little from this representation. Scholars and great thinkers from a thousand years ago were occasionally remembered; sometimes their names were woven into political speeches to add weight, but the nation’s authentic, three-thousand-year-old past never received its due recognition. It is highly probable that the fact that Biruni, Khwarizmi, Ibn Sina, Farabi, and our other great ancestors are today considered Arabs or Persians confirms our former indifference to our own heritage.

We should remember that during those years, we solemnly celebrated the millennia of our cities and marked anniversaries of world-renowned scholars, sometimes one or even two thousand years since their birth. And yet, paradoxically, we continued to repeat that our national history supposedly began in the 14th century, with the era of Amir Temur. What is most striking is that the many centuries before the 14th — and the six centuries after — seemed to vanish from our collective memory, as though they existed only in manuscripts. In essence, history was adjusted to fit ideology and politics. What didn’t fit was cut away, and what was convenient was retained and used for current purposes.

Take, for example, ideological populism in politics. In response to public discontent, a memorial to the victims of repression was built in Yunusabad, Tashkent. But, honestly speaking, can we really say that this memorial has conveyed to today’s generations the full depth and complexity of that tragic period, which affected not only our people but all the peoples of the former Union?

That is why I only touch on this issue briefly here.

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I believe it is now appropriate to return to the very subject that we chose as the main focus of this article. Let us recall that the construction of the complex began back in 2017. It is located in the heart of Tashkent, within the renowned Hazrati Imam ensemble, and occupies 10 hectares. The impressive building stretches 161 meters in length and 118 meters in width, rising three stories high. Its central azure dome reaches 65 meters. The structure itself is built on a 1.8-hectare plot, and the total usable area reaches 42,000 square meters. These figures alone illustrate the grandeur, scale, and scope of the project: Uzbekistan’s Center of Islamic Civilization will rank among the world’s largest complexes dedicated to the study and promotion of Islamic history, culture, and heritage.

I feel compelled to share more about this magnificent structure as someone who has seen it with my own eyes and experienced a profound sense of pride and uplift.

The complex is built in the finest traditions of Eastern and national architecture. You can enter it from any side through four monumental portals. Their facades, like the entire exterior of the building, are adorned with Quranic verses and Hadiths that reflect timeless values — knowledge and enlightenment, compassion and generosity, respect for parents.

The Center’s museum will host unique exhibitions, including a Hall of the Quran, a section on pre-Islamic civilizations, displays on the First and Second Renaissance, the period of the Uzbek khanates, Uzbekistan in the 20th century, and “New Uzbekistan — New Renaissance.” The second floor is designated for the representative offices of international organizations and branches of more than 100 leading scientific institutions, museums, and libraries from Turkey, Russia, and other countries, including those from Central Asia. Among them are prominent centers such as Al-Furqan and the Oxford Centre for Islamic Studies.

One particularly noteworthy aspect is the Center’s research planning system, which takes into account both national and international scholarly experience. And here, an important point must be emphasized. We often speak proudly of the two great renaissances that took place on our soil, yet we do not always reflect on how exactly they became possible. History makes it clear: both renaissances were born through cultural exchange and the organic integration of our region into the global scientific sphere.

From the outset, the Center was envisioned as a platform for collaboration with the world’s major scientific and cultural institutions. Put simply, Uzbekistan is set to become a place where some of the brightest intellectuals of the planet will come to work — just as Caliph al-Ma’mun and Amir Temur once attracted the greatest minds of their time to their states. It is also important to highlight that leading experts and scholars from dozens of countries were involved in the construction and equipping of this complex.

Already, dozens of authoritative museums and research centers have expressed interest in presenting their collections at the Center’s grand opening. These include the Islamic Arts Museum (Malaysia), the Suleymaniye Library (Turkey), the State Hermitage Museum and the State Museum of the History of Religion (St. Petersburg), the Azret-Sultan complex (Kazakhstan), the University of Bologna (Italy), the Ratti Foundation, the Alberto Levi Collection, the National Museum of History of Azerbaijan, the collections of David Paley, Bruce Baganz, and David Reisbord (USA), as well as the Mardjani Foundation.

While overseeing preparations for the museum’s work, I noticed another important development that genuinely delighted me. It's no secret that unpleasant reports occasionally appeared in social media or foreign media about an ancient manuscript or artifact of historical value being stolen from a museum or institute in Uzbekistan and secretly taken abroad. Today, the conversation is no longer about theft, but about the repatriation of our people's cultural treasures that were once taken abroad in such a barbaric manner.

Recently, at Sotheby’s and Christie’s auctions in London, as well as from well-known collectors and art dealers, more than 580 artifacts related to Uzbekistan’s cultural heritage were acquired for the new museum. Just think about it: nearly six hundred relics are returning home — something unprecedented in our history. Among these priceless finds are a fragment of the majestic Baysunghur Quran copied by calligrapher Umar Akta on the orders of Amir Temur; daggers and swords from the Baburid era; a unique dagger hilt; exquisite 18th–19th century embroideries from the time of the Uzbek Khanates; miniatures from the Baburid and Safavid periods; golden jewelry of the Golden Horde; a copy of Jalal ad-Din Rumi’s Masnavi-i Ma’navi; a page from Majma' al-tawarikh by Hafiz-i Abru from the Timurid era; as well as as well as Sogdian, Karakhanid, and Seljuk pottery and silver.

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The historian Mutribi Samarqandi, who lived in the 16th–17th centuries, wrote about the creative drive of Abdullah Khan, a distinguished representative of the Shaybanid dynasty and the last ruler of Turan. He cites the khan’s own words: “Amir Alisher Navoi, as a close confidant of Sultan Husayn Mirzo, managed to leave behind a thousand noble buildings. And we are kings — if we do not build at least ten thousand, what right do we have to call ourselves rulers?”

History shows that every great ruler viewed construction and creation as a guarantee of their lasting legacy. Yet not all of them succeeded in leaving an indelible mark. Only those initiatives that were rooted in knowledge, art, and culture — nourished by these vital sources — became truly immortal. The first and second Renaissances in our history stand as vivid proof of this.

The vision put forward by Shavkat Mirziyoyev is distinguished by its rare universality and global scope. Looking at the work of the center, it is clear that its purpose is not to repeat past mistakes and remain “prisoners of history,” but to breathe new life into the legacy of our ancestors — to connect tradition with modernity, history with the future, and open the way to a bright horizon. If hundreds of the world’s leading scholars come here and engage in creative and academic work, the birth of genuine discoveries and achievements will be only a matter of time. History has seen such moments before.

Not everyone today realizes that behind the history of the famous opera Aida and the Statue of Liberty are some unexpected turns. In 1869, the Egyptian ruler Ismail Pasha commissioned the great composer Giuseppe Verdi to write an opera for the opening of the Suez Canal. This is how Aida was born, premiering at the Cairo Theatre in 1871. At the same time, Ismail Pasha approached the French sculptor Frédéric Bartholdi with the idea of erecting a monumental statue of a woman with a torch in her hand at the entrance to the canal. But the project was too expensive. Years later, the same concept was revived in the form of the Statue of Liberty, which became a symbol of America.

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Tashkent has never been a city in need of excessive praise or ornate epithets. Its history stretches so far back through the centuries that it was written about not only by our great ancestors — Abu Rayhan al-Biruni, al-Khwarizmi, Mahmud al-Kashgari — but also by the ancient Greek scholar Claudius Ptolemy, who mentioned Tashkent in his Geography in the 2nd century. Throughout all eras, the word “Tashkent” has always conjured up the image of the Old City (Eski Shahar). But what has happened in this very corner — the cultural heart of Shash for centuries — over the past hundred years? A glance at history provides the answer: in the 1980s, the Chorsu market emerged as a symbol of Soviet modernism; in the years of independence, the Khazrati Imam complex was built, and next to it, the Zarqaynar Fashion House took shape. Yet, despite these new developments, this area has always remained the spiritual and cultural center of ancient Shash.

Today, simply take a walk through the Old City and you will witness something truly remarkable. It feels as though you have stepped right into history itself, as if your imagination is in conversation with the past — I can assure you of that. One street in particular will enchant you: Qorasaroy Street, where the main entrance to the Center is located. It’s almost impossible not to fall under the spell of the unique atmosphere of our ancient capital. To think that so much has changed in such a short time is astonishing. Honestly, the mind refuses to believe it. I myself once headed several districts of Tashkent. Back then, installing a basic sewage pipe could take years, and we would spend months trying to find an excavator for simple repair work. Today’s reality, with its rapid progress and capabilities, seems like an unbelievable dream, a kind of magical fairy tale.

I am firmly convinced that the Center of Islamic Civilization will not only breathe new life into the spiritual heritage of the Old City, but will also elevate Tashkent into the cultural orbit of the entire region, placing it alongside Samarkand and Bukhara.

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A well-known Russian writer once said, “If there’s a gun hanging on the wall in the first act, it must fire by the final act.” He was talking about the theatre, but the essence of this statement resonates strikingly with our present situation. If I don’t explain why I chose such a strong title for this article and where this feeling comes from, I risk losing the internal logic of the text. So let me explain. When I first saw the story that unfolds before us in the form of the Center of Islamic Civilization, my heart was gripped by two deep regrets. The first: despite having such a glorious past, we have never managed to present it to the world with the dignity it deserves. The second: despite possessing cultural wealth that could enrich humanity, we have never made the effort to gather it together and say to the world, “All of this is the creation of our ancestors.”

Yet even after we left the Soviet system behind, and even after the era of Sharof Rashidov, when there was briefly a little more room to address national issues, various leaders have taken the helm of our country. So why, even in the years of independence, did we not do this? Why? Why? Why?..

Was it because we didn’t have the means? But wealth didn’t fall from the sky then, nor does it now. Cotton, gold, gas — these resources existed before. Then why didn’t we act earlier? What were we waiting for?!

Such questions inevitably give rise to a sense of guilt — guilt before history, and before the pure souls of our ancestors. Lost time, indifference, and a condescending attitude toward our great history and culture make this feeling of pain burn even more fiercely.

But the ancient world and historical memory hold within themselves a special kind of wisdom. Sometimes a sudden, almost miraculous event can wash away grief and sorrow, bringing light not only to people’s hearts but to the entire world. In this sense, Shavkat Mirziyoyev’s boundless love for his people and homeland, his filial devotion to his duty before the country, can be seen as a blessing of fate — one capable of washing away yesterday’s mistakes and healing the heart of the nation.