Uyghur Poetry Translations

With my Uyghur poetry translations I am trying to build awareness of the plight of Uyghur poets who are being sent to Chinese "reeducation" concentration camps. Elegy by Perhat Tursun loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Asylum seekers, will you recognize me among the mountain passes' frozen corpses? Can you identify me here among our Exodus's exiled brothers? We begged for shelter but they lashed us bare; consider our naked corpses. When they compel us to accept their massacres, do you know that I am with you? Three centuries later they resurrect, not recognizing each other, Their former greatness forgotten. I happily ingested poison, like a fine wine. When they search the streets and cannot locate our corpses, do you know that I am with you? In that tower constructed of skulls you will find my dome as well: They removed my head to more accurately test their swords' temper. When before their swords our relationship flees like a flighty lover, Do you know that I am with you? When men in fur hats are used for target practice in the marketplace Where a dying man's face expresses his agony as a bullet cleaves his brain While the executioner's eyes fail to comprehend why his victim vanishes,... Seeing my form reflected in that bullet-pierced brain's erratic thoughts, Do you know that I am with you? In those days when drinking wine was considered worse than drinking blood, did you taste the flour ground out in that blood-turned churning mill? Now, when you sip the wine Ali-Shir Nava'i imagined to be my blood In that mystical tavern's dark abyssal chambers, Do you know that I am with you? The Encounter by Abdurehim Otkur loose translation by Michael R. Burch I asked her, why aren’t you afraid? She said her God. I asked her, anything else? She said her People. I asked her, anything more? She said her Soul. I asked her if she was content? She said, I am Not. The Distance by Tahir Hamut loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We can’t exclude the cicadas’ serenades. Behind the convex glass of the distant hospital building the nurses watch our outlandish party with their absurdly distorted faces. Drinking watered-down liquor, half-nude, descanting through the open window, we speak sneeringly of life, love, girls. The cicadas’ serenades keep breaking in, wrecking critical parts of our dissertations. The others dream up excuses to ditch me and I’m left here alone. The cosmopolitan pyramid of drained bottles makes me feel like I’m in a Turkish bath. I lock the door: Time to get back to work! I feel like doing cartwheels. I feel like self-annihilation. Refuge of a Refugee by Ablet Abduri Berqi aka Tarim loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I lack a passport, so I can’t leave legally. All that’s left is for me to smuggle myself to safety, but I’m afraid I’ll be beaten black and blue at the border and I can’t afford the trafficker. I’m a smuggler of love, though love has no national identity. Poetry is my refuge, where a refugee is most free. This excerpt is from an essay written by Tang Danhong about her final meeting with Dr. Ablet Abduri Berqi, aka Tarim. Tarim is a reference to the Tarim Basin and its Uyghur inhabitants... I’m convinced that the poet Tarim Ablet Berqi the associate professor at the Xinjiang Education Institute, has been sent to a “concentration camp for educational transformation.” This scholar of Uyghur literature who conducted postdoctoral research at Israel’s top university, what kind of “educational transformation” is he being put through? Iz (“Traces”) by Abdurehim Otkur loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We were children when we set out on this journey; Now our grandchildren ride horses. We were just a few when we set out on this arduous journey; Now we're a large caravan leaving traces in the desert. We leave our traces scattered in desert dunes' valleys Where many of our heroes lie buried in sandy graves. But don't say they were abandoned: amid the cedars their resting places are decorated by springtime flowers! We left the tracks, the station... the crowds recede in the distance; The wind blows, the sand swirls, but here our indelible trace remains. The caravan continues, we and our horses become thin, But our great-grand-children will one day rediscover those traces. My Feelings by Dolqun Yasin loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The light sinking through the ice and snow, The hollyhock blossoms reddening the hills like blood, The proud peaks revealing their breasts to the stars, The morning-glories embroidering the earth’s greenery, Are not light, Not hollyhocks, Not peaks, Not morning-glories; They are my feelings. The tears washing the mothers’ wizened faces, The flower-like smiles suddenly brightening the girls’ visages, The hair turning white before age thirty, The night which longs for light despite the sun’s laughter, Are not tears, Not smiles, Not hair, Not night; They are my nomadic feelings. Now turning all my sorrow to passion, Bequeathing to my people all my griefs and joys, Scattering my excitement like flowers festooning fields, I harvest all these, then tenderly glean my poem. Therefore the world is this poem of mine, And my poem is the world itself. To My Brother the Warrior by Téyipjan Éliyow loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When I accompanied you, the commissioners called me a child. If only I had been a bit taller I might have proved myself in battle! The commission could not have known my commitment, despite my youth. If only they had overlooked my age and enlisted me, I'd have given that enemy rabble hell! Now, brother, I’m an adult. Doubtless, I’ll join the service soon. Soon enough, I’ll be by your side, battling the enemy: I’ll never surrender! Tags: Uyghur, translation, Uighur, Xinjiang, China, reeducation, concentration camp, Allah, Islam, Islamic, culture, discrimination, faith, race, racism