A Journey Home to Uzbekistan

Hello Fellow Thinker; Happy New Year!

I thought about it long and hard, and I decided to continue writing in 2025. I missed engaging with my subscribers, and I look forward to hearing from you again!

Hope you have been well and I wish you all the best in 2025!

Now, let me tell you about my trip.

It’s been a long time coming, but I finally made the trip to visit my birthplace in Uzbekistan. Originally, we planned to go during the summer, but visa challenges pushed the trip to December. This time, we had no other destinations in mind—Uzbekistan was our sole focus. My goals were simple but deeply personal: visit the places I remembered from childhood, including the apartment where I was born, my grandmother’s house, and reconnect with family members I hadn’t seen in over 30 years.

Indira, my wife, also had her own reasons for the trip—reuniting with her parents and siblings. We stayed with her sister, who graciously hosted us and acted as our guide, driving us to places she thought we’d find meaningful. The trip turned out to be everything I hoped for and more. It was a time to reconnect with my family, revisit my roots, and reflect on a tough year. This journey wasn’t just about revisiting a country; it was about revisiting myself.

Full Circle

I was ten years old when we left Uzbekistan and moved to the United States. My father was 41 at the time. On December 24, 2024, I found myself standing on Uzbek soil again—a 41-year-old father of a 10-year-old son. Life had come full circle, with me retracing the journey I took as a child, but now as a father leading the next generation. This symmetry wasn’t planned; it was one of those serendipitous wonders of life.

Over the last 30 years, I often wondered about the family I left behind and the life I might have lived had we stayed. Meeting my relatives answered some of those questions but also revealed a bittersweet truth: while their lives had moved forward, it felt as though time had barely touched them.

Uzbekistan itself seemed caught in a time warp. Yes, there were new buildings, smartphones, and no USSR—but beneath the surface, much of it felt unchanged. It was as if the country was frozen in the 20th century. A cab driver I spoke with, a law graduate, gave up on his career aspirations after growing tired of endless, arbitrary hurdles imposed by employers. He now earns $50 a day driving a cab. His story was echoed by others—students, retirees—choosing the path of least resistance in a system that seemed designed to stifle ambition.

When I visited the apartment building where I grew up, it was a strange mix of familiarity and decay. The same weathered walls, larger unkempt trees, and beaten roads greeted me. Yet, instead of nostalgia, I felt a tinge of sadness. The expressions on the faces of the people I passed seemed resigned, almost lifeless. Their calm wasn’t the peace of contentment but, perhaps, the quiet of giving up.

The Bonds of Family

One of the most heartwarming parts of the trip was reconnecting with family. My cousins invited us to their chai hona—a traditional tea house—where they hosted a beautiful lunch for my family. Surrounded by familiar yet older faces, I saw flashes of our childhood in their eyes.

The food was delicious and nobody drank.

We shared stories, laughter, and reflections on how far life had taken us. Some of my cousins are now grandparents—a surreal realization. Social media had kept us aware of each other’s lives to some degree, but being together in person was a different experience. It wasn’t about catching up on events; it was about reconnecting through shared origins and the bond of family.

The essence of our childhood memories felt alive, even if time and distance had shaped us into different people. In those moments, I felt as though I was watering the roots of my life, nourishing a part of myself that had been dormant for decades.

Rest and Reflection

The trip also provided the break I desperately needed after a challenging year. Jet lag made it hard to adjust, but the slower pace and the lack of routine allowed me to bond deeply with my children. Watching them play with their cousins and experience a new culture gave me a fresh perspective on what truly matters.

This journey was a reminder of my blessings. Uzbekistan’s air pollution, for example, was a stark contrast to the clean air I take for granted in the U.S. Tashkent often has smog warnings, but locals seem desensitized to it. When I commented on the smell of smoke in the air, people shrugged it off—they had grown accustomed to what they couldn’t change.

I also realized that my life in America, with all its challenges, offers freedoms and opportunities unimaginable in Uzbekistan. The trip validated that I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Every struggle I face here is one I can approach on my own terms, with the resources to overcome it.

The Illusion of Nostalgia

One of the most profound takeaways from this trip was the realization that nostalgia is a construct of the mind. I had imagined that revisiting my childhood haunts would evoke warmth and comfort. Instead, I found that those places, though unchanged, no longer held the same magic.

The memories of my childhood remain vivid and cherished, but they belong to a time that no longer exists. Revisiting these places didn’t bring me closer to that time—it exposed the reality of the present. It was a poignant reminder that happiness and nostalgia are not tied to physical locations but to how we feel in certain moments of our lives.

Closing Thoughts

I’m grateful I made the journey back to Uzbekistan. It gave me closure on questions I had carried for decades. I reconnected with family, revitalized my roots, and found a renewed sense of gratitude for my life in the United States.

As I move into 2025, I feel ready to face whatever comes next. This trip reminded me of life’s greatest lesson: no matter where we come from or where we go, the journey forward is ours to define.

Keep thinking my friends!