A small request to friends, especially those who may recognize themselves somewhere in this post. 
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the growing love affair with awards in literary circles, not only in Uzbekistan, Central Asia and the Turkic world, but increasingly in international literary spaces too.
Poets award poets.
Writers award writers.
Friends award friends.
Someone creates a “Global,” “World,” or “International” organization, and suddenly there are certificates, medals, orders and magnificent titles everywhere.
Sometimes people even award themselves. 
And now I’ve started seeing “Noble” awards.
Noble? Did you mean Nobel?
Perhaps the Nobel Committee is simply running a little behind schedule.
But honestly, this isn’t really about making fun of anyone.
It makes me wonder: when did literature become a competition in collecting medals?
I’m not against awards. A meaningful award can be wonderful. But it should have transparent criteria, genuine competition, independent judgment and some real professional or artistic value.
A certificate designed mainly for Facebook?
No, thank you.
A medal you effectively buy yourself?
Even less.
A grand title created by your friends, followed by you giving them another grand title in return?
Please.
That isn’t literary recognition.
That is mutual applause.
And here is the more serious part.
I believe a writer should be able to tell the truth, especially when the truth is uncomfortable.
In our part of the world, we sometimes see people who are wonderfully brave when receiving an award, but considerably more cautious when it comes to questioning power.
They praise.
They attend.
They receive.
They smile for the photograph.
And then — another medal appears.
“International recognition!”
But for me, a writer isn’t someone who collects recognition.
A writer is someone willing to risk something by telling the truth.
And honestly, if the current Uzbek government suddenly decided to give me a state award, I might actually be offended.
I’d probably ask:
“Are you sure you have the right person?”
Because a medal doesn’t make a poem better.
And ten people calling you “great” don’t necessarily make you great.
Sometimes it simply means ten people have your phone number.
What means much more to me is something else.
Being invited somewhere because people genuinely want to meet you.
Being trusted with someone’s poem.
Translating another writer’s work.
Starting a conversation that leads to a collaboration.
Meeting artists from another country and becoming friends.
Sharing ideas, books, stories, and perhaps a pot of tea.
That kind of recognition cannot be printed on a certificate.
And perhaps that is why, whether or not I am ever “recognized” by official institutions at home, I continue to be welcomed by wonderful writers, artists and cultural people in different parts of the world.
For me, that is recognition.
So, please don’t award me.
Give me a good story instead.
Give me a poem that stays with me.
Let’s meet more.
Let’s read more.
Let’s translate more.
Let’s create more.
Let’s connect more.
Let’s be sincere.
And perhaps, above all,
let’s pretend less. 
Good luck to everyone!
