Monday, May 01, 2006

I exisist

I exist,
Translated by: Soraya Fallah
For my land Kurdistan

My friend, don’t deny my existance
I am and I have been for thousand years,
Though I have been denied on your unfair maps
Which are drawn by my enemy’s hand
I breathe in the live hearts of millions!
I am in my people’s struggle,
In their sorrow and their joy…


Who am I

By: Soraya Fallah
She wants to be a professional writer. What makes her disappointment about her writing? My inability to publish my book on last summer, she answered.
What do you mean? Did you ready your book to publish or what? I asked her. She explained how time passed by and she did not even get through her plan to finish her science fiction. She was affected by” Flower for Algernon” and therefore she started to write a deep fiction, which she is still thinking about. For more than an hour we talked about writing and her feelings. She explained to me how she has started, and what are her goals and aims for writing. She has very big and deep willing to reach highest position in writing which is Nobel Prize, even though she thinks politics determines the Nobel Prize.
Cklara her date of birth place of birth, and her mother as a writer who helped her to find her way and ability to write. She was born in a geopolitical land that has been divided between four or five countries, which is good reason to be a writer. International Children Day, the day she was born, and the name she has, encouraged her to write. But her most powerful influence was her mother, who gave motivation, inspiration, topics to write about. Her mother introduced her poet, writers, musician and politic senses. The interesting thing about her is she is able to speak different languages, and obviously she is familiar with the literature of different cultures. Usually a very young lady in this age is not familiar with so many writers around the world, but she even admires Daphne Demure as a powerful lady. She is her role model. She loves to listen to classic songs like Josh Groban, Charlotte Church, classic music of Abraham, Bach Chopin. She is going to her own world when she is listening to music than writing becomes as easy as breathing, Sometimes when the words are not as fast as the thoughts are, writing is as hard as breathing after running miles. Cklara got many responses to her writing, she wrote a speech for a big festival in 2001 Victory over Violence” during the war with Afghanistan and read it for 10000 people. She won the Asian Pacific Essay Contest 2002, and the CA Police Department Essay Contest in 2002. She is always the center of attention and pays attention to write, teachers, her family, her little brother, and many other relatives. For her knowing his background, her heritage, keeping her own language and writing in other language rather than English are important.

Crime and Punishment
By:CKlara Moradian

Within my mother’s womb I swam, unaware of whom I was. Within the protection of her safety nest I grew, unaware of the world I was yet to be born to. Unaware of the scarlet letter I was already bearing upon my chest, unaware of the mark that the world had already stamped upon my forehead, the symbol, the label that was being stitched upon my skin, the labels that my fathers before me had carried upon their backbones, the onus, the burden that my mothers in the snowy mountains had carried upon their shoulders. Before I ever set eyes upon the illuminating darkness of today and tomorrow and all the days that passes me by, this world had already given me my name, and that identity brought a sentence that I had already been condemned to. I was given birth, and was embraced within thousands of years of history, culture, heritage and a sweet mother tongue, but the world knew me as inferior, looked down upon me, taking even the basic rights of the human body. I lived in a heroic reverie, grew, and was entangled in a legacy left behind by the people who bore my name, by the legacy of the brave, and the selfless who suffered for the land they walked upon and were tortured for the air they breathed, were stoned and hanged for the purity of the blood that ran through their veins. I walked, and slept to the lullabies of the mothers who ran through the mine fields and sang for the children who would never again awaken. I spoke, and hummed a melody to the rhythm of the bombshells that bombarded the backyard of my grandfather’s apple garden. I learned, and smelled through the blind the intoxicated air that they breathed one lethal silent afternoon in March. I watched, and saw through the deaf the bloodshed they cleaned after that clod winter night in January. I was driven away, all had to be left behind and nostalgia, exile and the meaning of the electric wires of the boarders were soon clearly felt. What is it about loneliness that makes us so detached and small? I feel the anger within me rise, the anger of generations of suppressed people, the anger of not having the right to say who I am, be who I am, show the pride of my history, my heritage, my identity, my dignity, have a country, a home. What is it about anger that makes us so passionate and yet so helpless? What is it about freedom that we humans so desperately long for, need, desire, want, fight for, and die for? Why will they not set us free? I need an answer! Yet no one is willing to say a word. Who am I in a stranger’s land? Who am I but a wanderer that yearns for the smell of the soil that carries my roots? Who am I, kinem, men kem in the land where the name of my people are forgotten under the shadow of tragedy, of misery? Who am I in the stranger’s eyes when in the weary eyes of my own land I am just another agonizing memory of all the injustices and all the unfairness? What is it about cruelty that is so hard to grasp? A single silent moment and I realize that through and through from the moment I began to form my existence I have always been what the world has tried to destroy, dissect and deform, tear apart and burn, extinguish the flame of life through genocide after genocide, through mass graves of the children who were buried alive, and yet I still stand, I still cry out and shout, I still try to reflect the spirit of the many who marched before me and were silenced by cold inhumane metallic bullets of animosity. A single silent moment and I sigh, I am a Kurd and if that is my crime then never before have I been so proud to announce myself as a criminal and if that is my punishment then never before have I been so willing to pay for this condemned crime. Self pity has never cured or healed anyone’s sickness, illness, madness, pain. I am a Kurd and not a victim...perhaps the time of redemption has come.
By Cklara Moradian