A Rose for the Heart of Life

PrefaceExile, Poetry, the World and IThe Exile of LanguagesBeing born Kurdish to Kurdish parents who only know Kurdish from God's numerous languages, I wanted - just like all children - to play, study, learn, and spell my first letters in my mother tongue. Instead, I found myself in a maze of other languages in front of a language where I didn't know one letter from another: Arabic. A few years later, the child who grew inside of me day after day asked himself, "Why are you studying and learning this strange language instead of the language of your mother, father and grandfathers?" Time and awareness gave a frank answer to that question: the Kurdish language was and still is forbidden in Syria - except when it's spoken at home with the family. The Kurdish culture is forbidden and persecuted in Syria. Writing in Kurdish is forbidden since there are no schools, institutions, or universities that teach it or include in their curriculum. Therefore, the only option that I was given was to master Arabic and educate myself step-by-step by studying, reading, and writing. This is precisely what happened. And now, I am here, writing my poems in this foreign language with a high imagination and an infatuation, which is incomparable except for my infatuation with poetry itself, and at a depth that emulates so many fellow poets and writers of this language. In this context, I would like to add the fact that I learned to read and write my mother tongue in exile, in Europe, where I am allowed to write in Kurdish my poems, texts, and obsessions. The Homeland's ExileAn Arabic journalist wants to ask me about my reasons for living in Germany. He will publish the entire conversation in an Arabic press; and yet, the answer to that controversial question will end up being deleted and I do not know why! I will answer, I was forced to run away from Syria. At that time, I told myself, 'Run away before you commit suicide, go crazy, go to jail, starve, or the fire of life and hope that burns inside of you goes out. Leave this country, which has turned into nothing more than a disintegrated corpse, a corpse that has no value of love, freedom, beauty, or human dignity; leave it before despair gnaws on your heart and soul; leave it before all of your dreams pass away'. For these reasons, I found myself in a new place of exile, an exile from where I long for my birthplace. Whenever I hear its sad news, I appreciate my exile and stay devoted to it. Living in exile is difficult, but living in my country of birth is harder. Poetry moistens the hardness of it all. But I would like to say here very clearly, that my only country was and still is Kurdistan, and Syria was and is still occupying part of my native country and the place from which I came from! [...]Hussein Habasch