مەن ئابدۇشۈكۈر مۇھەممەت
لېكىن ئىسىم مەندە مۇساپىر،
ئۆمۈچۈك تورىدەك كىيىلگەن ماڭا.
بەلكىم ئۇ قېچىپ كەلگەن
مەن بېرىپ باقمىغان ماكاندىن
تەكلىماكانغا.
خاتا يېزىلغان تېخى
خۇددى ھاياتىمدا خاتا سۆيگەن تۇنجى قىزدەك،
ھەم بەكلا ئۇزۇن
خۇددى سېغىنىشىمدەك،
ئاخىرى يوق خىياللىرىمدەك،
ھېچكىمگە ئېيتالمايدىغان ئازابلىرىمدەك.
چېقىلغان مەسچىتلەرگە ئوخشايدۇ بەزەن،
بەزىدە ئاتامدىن قالغان كونا قەبرىگە،
يەنە بەزىدە يۇپيۇمىلاق كۇچا نېنىغا.
چېگرادەك ئەگرى-بۈگرى سىزىقلىرى
ئايلاندۇرار مېنى
ئاتامنىڭ قەبرە بېشىدىكى بىر تۈپ قارىياغاچقا .
ئاتام پەيغەمبەر ئەمەس ئىدى مەن تۇغۇلغاندا،
لېكىن پەيغەمبەردەك قوغلاندۇق يۇرتىمىزدىن
«مۇھەممەت» ئىسمىدا.
مىڭ يىللىق شامالدا ئۇپرىغان تاشتەك
ئېسىپ قويۇلغانسەن پەقەت مۇزېي تېمىغا.
تىرىكى كىرىپ ئۆلىكى قالىدىغان ئەي مۇزېي -
راست - يالغىنى ئوخشاش ئەي دۇنيا،
ئۇچۇق كەتكەن كۆزلەرنىڭ قان داغلىرىدا،
ئىسىملار چېچەكلەر قۇم رەڭگىدە.
ئەگەر ئىسمىم خالىسا مېنى
مەن ئۆلگەندە
ئىسمىم بىلەن يۇيۇڭلار مېنى.
2020-11-22
ئىسمىم
ئابدۇشۈكۈر مۇھەممەت
Listen to the original read by the poet:
What is there to a name?
I asked Abdushukur Muhammet what this poem meant to him—he told me that some time in November 2020, he found out that the graveyard his family was buried in back in our homeland had been razed. Ever since his exile, he had been yearning for home, and that news came particularly hard to him. He realized that even in death we cannot rest in peace.
What is there to a name? It is so simple, yet Muhammet uses the fact that Chinese authorities have banned names like his (parents can no longer name their children certain religious names, and some people have changed their names to be less Islamic in light of this pressure) to weave a poem that speaks to the way Chinese authorities are controlling and oppressing every aspect of Uyghur life, culture, and spirit—from our naming to our graves, from birth to death. He speaks of our discontent for the lack of justice in this world, and his drive to seek out the essence of his self again. This is a poem born from the absurdity and frustration of being banished from our identities, from our homes, and from finding peace in death.
I asked Abdushukur Muhammet what this poem meant to him—he told me that some time in November 2020, he found out that the graveyard his family was buried in back in our homeland had been razed. Ever since his exile, he had been yearning for home, and that news came particularly hard to him. He realized that even in death we cannot rest in peace.
What is there to a name? It is so simple, yet Muhammet uses the fact that Chinese authorities have banned names like his (parents can no longer name their children certain religious names, and some people have changed their names to be less Islamic in light of this pressure) to weave a poem that speaks to the way Chinese authorities are controlling and oppressing every aspect of Uyghur life, culture, and spirit—from our naming to our graves, from birth to death. He speaks of our discontent for the lack of justice in this world, and his drive to seek out the essence of his self again. This is a poem born from the absurdity and frustration of being banished from our identities, from our homes, and from finding peace in death.
Abdushukur Muhammet is a writer and poet from Kucha, who has been living in Sweden since 2003. Fascinated by poetry, Muhammet studied to become a teacher in Uyghur literature, poetry, and history in his twenties, and by the 1990s, had become a well-known poet among Uyghurs. After working as a teacher for thirteen years, Muhammet was subjected to severe control and harassment during the chaos of the mid-90s for his role in promoting Uyghur language and culture, until he was eventually forced into exile. To date he has written eight books—two of which were published just this year: a historical piece titled Amine Bughra: A Woman Forgotten by History (Uyghur Tetqiqati Instituti) and A Tale of Silence (Omca Yayınları), a book of poetry published in Turkish. Currently he is a member of the Swedish Writers’ Union and is the Secretary General for the World Uyghur Writers’ Union, which he founded along with Uyghur writers in diaspora.
Munawwar Abdulla is a lab manager and research technician in an evolutionary neuroscience lab at Harvard University. She holds a B.Sc. from the Australian National University and an M.Sc. from UNSW Sydney. When she is not working with dog and fox brains, Abdulla is knee-deep in projects surrounding Uyghur activism and community building. She cofounded The Tarim Network, runs the Uyghur Collective, and collaborates on projects with Uyghur rights organizations around the world. She also has a keen interest in poetry and literary translation. Her writings have been published in various places, including SubbedIn, Cordite Poetry Review, Modern Poetry in Translation, The Diplomat, Overachiever Magazine, and Rabbit Poetry Journal.
