Striking the Wall of Conformism

An encounter between an elderly woman and a younger lady waiting in line for a cashier—where the older woman recited one of her poems—prompted me to reflect on the true traditions of poetry and the nature of conformism. Our literary mentors—writers and poets shaped by the Soviet-colonial creative ethos—turned away from ancestral traditions, driven by fear and self-preservation to embrace a conformist stance.

Regrettably, their conformist works—bearing titles like "Interpret Everything Positively," "On Happiness," and "Patience"—have yet to undergo proper critical reassessment. Many still regard them as "exemplary literature" while simultaneously endorsing societal conformism—effectively shooting themselves in the foot. Yet this elderly woman—whose poetry deeply resonates with ordinary people, the very ones who suffer most from this culture—completely rejects that Soviet-colonial legacy through a single work. I transcribed this heartfelt poem by an unknown author to ensure it does not fade into oblivion.

The Cashier Hasn't Come

I walked a long way, moving slowly,

My hands are cracked, my lips are dry;

Rest eludes me; I shift where I sit,

I sit waiting, but the cashier hasn't come.

When I set out at dawn, I whispered "Bismillah,"

Seeking God's grace, following the Prophet's path;

Though I am nearing ninety years of age,

I sit waiting, but the cashier hasn't come...

My husband lies in critical condition,

And medicines offer no relief;

They said the cashier would arrive shortly,

Yet I sit waiting, and he hasn't come.

Navigating rough roads, praying for payout,

Searching in vain for a cure for this burden;

Revealing half my troubles while hiding the rest,

I sit waiting, but the cashier hasn't come.

The whip of life has battered my weary frame,

Sorrow and tears have worn me down;

At home lies the finest of young men,

I sit waiting, but the cashier hasn't come.

To buy sweet treats for him to eat,

To purchase medicine to restore his strength;

I am desperate to hurry home,

Yet I sit waiting, and the cashier hasn't come.

May your eyes never meet mine,

May your hands slip from my grasp;

And as for the words I meant to say to you—

Do not wait, my dear; the cashier never came...

A colleague who showed me this poem remarked, "With just those few words—'the cashier never came'—our grandmother laid bare the entirety of Turkmen reality."

This piece—which captivated me on my drive home and kept me awake late into the night—felt like a single, decisive blow of an adze against the walls of servitude built over a lifetime by credentialed regime sycophants.

Lately, as I browse social media, I find myself increasingly convinced that the blows struck against the wall of conformity are multiplying. State censorship—once an immovable iron weight upon the public consciousness—will not withstand the coming flood that promises to sweep away even the mightiest boulders.

To borrow the insights of American psychologist Rollo May: in our society, the opposite of courage is not cowardice, but conformity. While conformity obliterates true identity and individuality, courage signifies standing firm against social pressure—a noble, Quixotic defiance.

If cowardice is merely the experience of fear or a lack of nerve, conformity represents total submission and surrender. It is joining the crowd that remains silent or nods along to directives from above, simply to ensure safety and blend in. Society routinely rewards this acquiescence—this choice to refrain from dissent. Such conformity carries no immediate risk, and that is precisely what makes it the most dangerous trap of modern life.