It’s a chilly November morning in the mountains of Zarafshon, Tajikistan—two names still foreign to much of the world. The foliage has turned yellow, and cattle chomp at the last patches of grass left in these valleys of a thousand generations. My back is still recovering from a spinal injury I suffered a few months ago, and my mind scrambles to piece together the limited Farsi I know as I try to ask for directions from a teenage boy selling freshly baked bread in the center of the village I’ve just arrived in.

“Welcome to Ayni!” the boy says cheerfully.
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“You go down this way—someone will let you stay,” he adds, pointing to an alleyway next to the police station.

Ayni is not a place for typical tourists—nor is Tajikistan. Being labeled “the poorest country in Central Asia” certainly doesn’t help its case. You don’t come to Tajikistan for a five-star mountain resort, an extravagant brunch atop a neatly polished twenty-story building, or an exotic wildlife safari across the savannah.

What Tajikistan offers goes far beyond its hundred-million-year-old mountain ranges or its gold-rich, crystal-clear lakes and rivers. What it truly has is something simpler—like a little boy cheering and welcoming you to his village as if you were part of his family, and then some.

Ayni is a village nestled along the banks and valleys of the Zarafshon River. Once home to the ancient Iranian city of Sogdia, it is now home to Rukhshod—a boy more fluent in English than most high schoolers in Tajikistan, even though he’s only ten and just began learning the language last summer. It is also home to his two cousins, Jonibek (11) and Orifjon (9), his sister Amina (8), and his grandmother, Mrs. Karimova—the kind-hearted woman who opened her door to a wandering stranger in need of a warm place to stay.

How long does it take to bond with someone? A week? A month? Four years? Or maybe just a single day—when you realize you have more in common than you ever expected. In my case, it took one minute.

“Stay with us, eat with us, and pray in our house so this family is blessed even more by Allah,” says Mrs. Karimova.

About 96% of Tajikistan’s population are Muslims. Islam plays a deeply significant role in the daily life of nearly every Tajik household—more so than in many neighboring Central Asian countries. In Islam, offering hospitality and generosity to travelers, regardless of their religious background, is considered a highly virtuous act. And to this family, I am no different from any of their relatives. As a fellow Muslim, I am welcomed not just as a guest, but as kin—and offering a few extra prayers for their livelihood is the least I can do.

Looking back over the three decades since Tajikistan’s independence, there are more than enough reasons for its people to be guarded rather than warm. The country endured a devastating, underreported civil war that claimed over 50,000 lives and displaced around 1.2 million people. It continues to grapple with border tensions with Afghanistan and an economy heavily reliant on remittances—hardships that affect nearly every Tajik family. And yet, they remain among the gentlest, most generous souls I’ve ever met.

Rukhshod and Amina’s parents also work in Moscow. In fact, it has been over two winters since they last saw them. While two years may pass quickly for adults, for children as young as Amina and Rukhshod, it feels like a lifetime—a quarter of their entire lives.

“Do you like football? I like to play football with my cousins,” Rukhshod exclaims, roaring with excitement.
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“He’s excited to have a new friend—that’s why he’s louder than usual,” Mrs. Karimova adds with a smile.

The weather hasn’t been the friendliest this time of year. Still, it’s warmer than in most of the neighboring Central Asian countries. But then comes a sudden burst of rain—and despite how well Rukhshod plans everything, this was one surprise he couldn’t have predicted.

We all gather on the couch, lying down and chatting, passing the time with football and geography quizzes. Amina peeks shyly from behind the bedroom door, observing Rukhshod and me like a curious cat.
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“Amina, come here,” Rukhshod calls.

“She’s shy. She probably wants you to help her with homework,” he adds.
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And like every curious cat, she eventually approaches.

A few days pass. I wake up every morning at five, a few hours before dawn. Mrs. Karimova is already up before me, preparing breakfast for all of us. Four small bowls of sweet barley porridge are laid on the table, and steaming black tea from the northern Ferghana valleys is poured into our cups. The aroma mingles with the unusually cold, 2°C early November air. A large piece of Tajik naan bread is taken from the shelf and torn into four pieces—until a knock comes at the door.“Salām alaikum!” a man shouts from outside.

The children have just woken up, half-asleep and yawning loudly as they walk from their bedroom into the kitchen. Mrs. Karimova opens the door. An elderly man enters, prompting everyone to stand and greet him.“Walaikum salām!” everyone replies.

The man is rather short, though he commands respect from everyone in the room. He wears a traditional all-black Tajik coat and hat. With a heavy, hoarse voice softened by a gentle demeanor, he says, “Please, please. Sit.”

What was once four pieces of naan has now become five. Intrigued by my foreign appearance, he asks where I’m from. “Indonesia,” I reply. The man lights up with joy, thrilled to finally meet someone from the lush, tropical country he has always yearned to visit.“I met Indonesians when I did the Hajj pilgrimage in Mecca. You are some of the kindest people on Earth. You are my brother!” he exclaims.

The cold, cloudy morning turns into a theater of tender emotions. Even the sleepy children brighten up and finish their breakfast before the adults. The man is a mullah—a Muslim cleric and mosque leader. Every Friday, he visits homes in the village to offer prayers. This time, he recites them both before and after the meal, in Persian Tajik—a language too poetic and complex for me to fully understand. The wall of language remains unscalable.

With full stomachs and a thirst for adventure, Rukhshod and I march into the cold morning, heading toward our plan—playing football at Ayni’s, the Zarafshon region’s only football pitch. The dynamic cousins join us along the way.

Every few days, we spend time together up in the mountains. Sometimes it’s football on a plateau; other times, we scale the arid slopes and lie down near the summit to admire the same views that every child who’s lived here since antiquity once did. “Do you see the world?” Rukhshod asks. And I do.

In the evenings, we share stories after dinner. Occasionally, a sad one will surface and cast a shadow over the happier tales. Mrs. Karimova is a strong, motherly figure—protective of her grandchildren. “Rukhshod is a good boy. He’s the smartest in his class,” she says.

Weighed down by the emotional upheaval she wrestles with each day, she fears seeing her grandchildren live a life without joy. Rukhshod and Amina’s father, a taxi driver, left their mother for another woman—leaving her, a nurse, as the family's only hope of keeping the dream alive: to buy a house in the Tajik capital, Dushanbe, and bring Rukhshod and Amina with her, offering them a chance at a better life.

That’s the third time Rukhshod has said it this week. Although the plan gets postponed year after year, he remains hopeful. Amina, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have fully grasped the reality just yet. Still, both of them show remarkable maturity in how they communicate and adapt to their circumstances.

Rukhshod does what many adults in the village do: he plants, harvests, and sells tomatoes, buys naan bread, fetches fresh mountain water each morning, and handles the grocery shopping from his grandmother’s list twice a week—all while finishing his homework early, acing his school exams, and learning English in his spare time.

Amina helps her grandmother around the house: cooking, cleaning the floors, washing the dishes, and keeping everything in order. At the end of each day, their smiles outweigh all the hardships, dissolving the bitterness of their struggles—proof that there’s every reason to remain hopeful, resilient, generous, and kind.