Uzbekistan has established a system to protect children from violence, including legislation, hotlines, and social services. However, for this system to work, a child needs two things: words to name what is happening and an adult ready to listen. According to Marifatkhon Umarova, founder of the Xavfsiz Bolalik initiative, a key gap exists precisely at this level—between the legal system and the child's perception.
Ask a ten-year-old what violence is. They will likely describe it as hitting. Ask if there is violence at home, and they will probably say no. Even if they are compared to the neighbor's daughter every day, isolated from friends, or controlled through shame. Even if physical punishment occurs at home—because for them, it remains not violence but a disciplinary measure. The word 'violence' is not in their vocabulary. Other words are: 'our family is strict,' 'mom is nervous,' 'I am to blame.'
Every family in Uzbekistan has its own set of soft words for unpleasant things: 'it's our custom,' 'so they grow up to be a good person.' They are not bad in themselves. However, they are convenient because they allow describing what is happening without calling it by its name. It is because of these words that 'violence' for most children in Uzbekistan means only extreme cases—leaving out everything that does not fall into the so-called extreme category.
According to a U-Report (UNICEF) survey involving 1,879 young people nationwide, only 38% recognize all forms of violence as violence. The remaining 62% recognize violence only partially—some forms are unacceptable to them, others are not. What is not recognized will likely never reach an adult or help.
For a child to ask for help, three things must align: they must understand they are being treated wrongly, they must have words to name what is happening, and there must be someone nearby they can tell. The Law 'On Protection of Children from All Forms of Violence' largely addresses the third condition—obligating adults to listen. But the first two conditions—words and understanding—lie in an area where work goes not only through law but also through family, school, and society.
When the state adopted the law in November 2024, it did one important thing: it gave violence a broad legal definition. The law lists six forms: physical, psychological, sexual, exploitation, neglect, and bullying, including online. This means a mother who humiliates her child daily is breaking the law. A teacher who allows classmates to bully a student is breaking the law. A guardian who does not speak to a child for months is also breaking the law.
The law knows. Society—not yet. If a child does not have the word 'violence' for anything but extreme cases, then they also lack words like 'humiliation,' 'neglect,' 'bullying' as labels for the unacceptable. There is just life—as it is. And there is nothing to ask for help about: because what one seeks help for must first be named.
It is not only about the child. The same survey shows that young people themselves—the generation that will raise their own children in a few years—largely share old attitudes. According to studies, just over 40% of young people believe physical punishment of a child is unacceptable under any circumstances. About a quarter—23–25%—consider it acceptable if the child has 'acquired bad habits.' Moreover, about one in ten justifies violence in cases of ethical rule violations.
In recent years, much has been done in the country. The 1146 helpline operates, prevention inspectors and mahalla social workers are active. The 'Uzbekistan—2030' Strategy identifies improving the child protection system as one of the main priorities. This is serious work. But the state alone cannot change what happens in families every day—the ideas about upbringing in which physical punishment is still considered the norm.
What the law calls violence, society still largely calls upbringing. Between these two languages—state and everyday—lies the first boundary of silence.
This is one reason for children's silence—lack of words. But there is another. Even when a child understands they are being treated wrongly, they often do not turn to adults. Children are silent not because they have nothing to say. They are silent because they are afraid: of being dismissed, not believed, or worse, punished. Afraid of shaming the family. Afraid of scandal, gossip in the mahalla, family reaction. For many, an adult is primarily a figure of authority, not trust. And school, inspector, and helpline are strangers, distant people who speak differently, think differently, and live differently.
For example, only 17.6% of young people know they can call 102 in case of violence. 16.2% honestly admit they do not know whom to turn to. 11.4% consider domestic violence an 'internal matter' not to be interfered with. And adolescents aged 14–17—the age group with the highest incidence of violence—report a lower willingness to seek help than all others.
That is, where violence occurs most often, the child's voice is heard least often. And it is at this point that the role of a peer emerges. Friends and peers are often the only ones who know what a teenager lives with and what they are silent about. They hear what a class teacher will never hear. They see what even a mother does not see. Therefore, it is important that peers are part of child protection work.
The Peer-to-Peer Support model is recommended by UNICEF and the UN and is already successfully applied in many countries. The essence is simple: teenagers are taught to recognize signs of violence, know children's rights, and understand where to direct a peer in trouble. They do not become psychologists and do not replace specialists. However, they become a bridge—between the child and those adults, services, and laws that without this bridge cannot reach the child.
It is indicative that society itself understands the root of the problem lies not only in laws. When asked which measures against child violence are most effective, both women and men ranked first not harsher punishments but increasing parents' knowledge about upbringing. This means fighting violence is primarily about working with knowledge, attitudes, and accepted norms. Such work is impossible without trusting contact. And where there is no trust between child and adult, the only one who can establish it is a peer.
'Xavfsiz bolalik' (Safe Childhood) is an initiative I founded to adapt the Peer-to-Peer model to our conditions. In the first year, we held meetings in 24 schools in Tashkent, five orphanages and centers. In total, we spoke with over 2,400 children and students.
The main thing I saw this year is not how little children know, but how quickly they engage when given the right to speak. In schools where violence was never discussed before, children are initially silent, then start asking questions, and then begin to tell. At first, they do not talk about themselves; they talk about acquaintances, a friend's friend, 'a boy from the parallel class.' Nevertheless, they take away something they did not have before: understanding that humiliation has a name; that fear is a signal, not a norm; that seeking help is not weakness but a right. Many later share this with friends and parents. Information spreads—slowly but surely. In 2026, we plan to go beyond Tashkent—to regions where the topic of violence is discussed even less.
Peers do not replace parents and specialists—and should never replace them. But they are by the child's side before anyone else. And where building a relationship with an adult is difficult—due to authority, distance, fear of punishment—a peer can be the first to listen. For a child who has neither words nor trust in adults, it is the peer who becomes the first confidant.
Xavfsiz bolalik works with children who might otherwise not be heard—closing the gap that reform alone cannot close.
Source: kun.uz