Chapter 13 A Life of Many Homes Reflections of a Writer in Exile

Writer in Censorship

Most Kurdish writers began by writing poetry. Usually, it is love poetry in hopes of winning the heart of someone. For me, that came to an end when my initial ambition of attracting girls did not work out. I did not stop writing, and even though I never attended any creative writing classes, I continued to explore my voice. I wrote about other kinds of love—the love of nature, the love of freedom. I wrote about the complexities of human nature.

I remember my mother used to worry about me because I would spend all day surrounded by books. She used to ask me why I wrote and read while other kids my age focused on playing outside with their friends. She did not understand that when I was writing, I felt most free; it was my escape. I was not in a dimly lit room or the corners of a library; I was exploring the world. I was free in the truest sense of the word. That is what writing is for me—untainted, uncensored freedom. Through poetry, I explored the range of human emotions, the nature of the world around me, and my own struggle, as a Kurd, for freedom of expression.

In Iraq, there was no place for writing in the mainstream beyond social realism. Social realism, however, was used not to express things as we saw them but to express things as we were expected to see them—to express what the government wanted us to express: the glorification of Iraqi nationalism under the Ba’athist regime and, more specifically, under Saddam’s rule. Iraqis would privately say to one another that there were more photos of Saddam than there were people in Iraq.

During this time, Iraq harboured intense hostility toward the press and media. Any semblance of unbiased reporting was targeted. Articles, newspapers, and journals were co-opted to further Saddam’s cause. I remember one such article, front and center in the country’s largest paper headed by the journalists’ union, that argued voting should be replaced by two choices: “We love Saddam a lot” or “We love Saddam immensely.”

As I grew as a writer, I realized that regardless of my talent or the care I put into my writing, it was difficult to publish if it did not push the state’s propaganda. Saddam Hussein’s Ba’athist party was the only lawful political party in Iraq, and during this era, political criticism of or dissent from the Iraqi government was illegal. In accordance with Saddam’s Constitution of 1990, the Ba’athist party would appoint a Revolutionary Command Council. Among other powers, this council had the right to prohibit anything that it felt could harm “national unity,” the “objectives of the People,” or their “achievements.” This vague description meant that censorship was completely subjective, and publishing from outside the regime’s mandate could lead to time in prison.

Despite this, I persisted with writing my first collection of poetry, Dancing in the Evening Snow. Overcoming this censorship proved itself a more frustrating but slightly artistic endeavour and a process I would have to become familiar with.

I would begin first by writing directly from the heart, looking at the circumstances around me and wildly embracing the need to express myself. The first draft of my poetry felt like the time when my mother would occasionally, on her more overwhelmed days, allow the children to run free in the garden in front of our home. It was an unfiltered and chaotic joy that was perhaps, given the context, childlike in its wonder and naïveté. Like unshackling my weary wrists from the chains of censorship, writing was an almost bodily response to the constant pressure of oversight and restriction.

By the time I had enough work to fill many books and was content I had at least expressed myself to the universe, if no one else, I began stripping away “dangerous” poems. This first phase of editing, or “self-censorship,” was extremely important because it was the layer that would prevent me from being arrested, executed, or tortured. Poems that too openly talked about the circumstances of oppressed people—that explored the wonder of liberty, freedom, and self-determination—would all need to be either edited beyond recognition or erased.

Below is an example of such a poem, titled simply “War,” removed entirely from Dancing in the Evening Snow, to be re-added and published many years later in both English and Kurdish:

After the removal of the blatantly dangerous pieces, which was typically a large portion of the work I had written, I would move on to poetry that may have touched or grazed the embargo of free thought—poems that suggested or subtly referred to forbidden ideology. Many more of these could be edited, but some still had to be removed due to their lack of substance following harsh revision. “Corner,” in its original form below, I decided not to publish after realizing it would be unrecognizable following the changes I would need to make:

Although I considered removing words such as “martyrs” or “exiles,” I ultimately decided the poem would lose its meaning, and even behind symbolism, it was unlikely to be included for its tone.

The last part of the process before submitting for publication involved changing poems that I thought could remain meaningful or enjoyable while posing little risk in halting publication or potentially causing harm to myself or loved ones. These poems were subtly still expressing that which I wanted to express, but under the guise of innocent and perhaps mundane poetry.

“Arrival” describes the first night I was approached by Ba’athist Secrete Police, some of whom were themselves Kurdish:

In “Arrival,” one of the last poems I had written for my debut work, there are subtle and hidden allusions to topics I would have otherwise been reprimanded for writing about. The “noise” represents the violence we are subjected to and the “dogs,” or soldiers and officers, that “bark non-stop.” The “strangers” are the elements of the regime we must all allow into our lives and homes, into our most intimate moments, while the “birds” that refuse to fly away portray our hope in the face of suppression and adversity. This was the most we could express under the circumstances, a poem that did not entirely tell the story we wished it to but at least held some of the spirit of the writer.

This was a difficult life for a young writer trying to express different feelings and ideas. Despite this pressure, I tried to continue my journey as a writer through such symbolism. I tried to write and express myself through meaning that way. It was exceedingly difficult. Eventually, when I was able to finish Dancing in the Evening Snow, despite a process that featured various layers of self-censorship, tedious and meticulous review to shroud meaning with placeholders and symbolism, my book was still rejected three times before publication.

The first time it was rejected, I was not given a clear indication as to why. I simply received word from the censorship office through my publisher that my work would not be permitted to be published. At this point, I was not a well-known poet or author; I simply distributed my pieces by myself to friends and family and perhaps a few work colleagues. Very occasionally, I would present my work at small poetry readings around Erbil. There was no wide audience for me to influence, no awaiting critical acclaim.

Despite this, I persisted, and with no reason given for the rejection, I was forced to comb over my work again and identify what exactly it was that had drawn the ire of the censorship committee. And so the process continued. As an artist writing in a fascist regime, I was forced to continue to strip, continue to rework, until finally given permission to print a work that was so distant from that first heartfelt draft that it was barely recognizable.

A Writer in Prison

Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, in 1986, I returned to my old home in the Erbil Public Library in an unexpected way. The library had been transformed by the Ba’ath regime into a jail, and I was shoved through the revolving door as a prisoner of the regime’s secret police.

My sanctuary in that building, where I had enjoyed beautiful books and expanded my world, was now a thirty-five-centimetre-wide space where I was only allowed to sleep on my side in a tight corridor, between a routine of beatings and a life in handcuffs. I was being used as a message to those who would try to think or write about democracy, about freedom of expression or another way of life.

I was being used to tell them that their thoughts and imaginations were under persecution. The physical transformation of the library into a jail—full of not tables and carrels but holding cells and torture chambers—showed the power of the growing Ba’ath regime over our lives. I was being imprisoned in a place that was once my salvation from everyday worries. I had committed no crime but attempting to continue to seek out freedom of expression. For the Iraqi regime, this was enough.

The library cell was built for fifteen people, but forty people were crowded inside it. It was an extremely painful isolation from my family, difficult even for me to reimagine almost forty years later. The daily routine consisted of torture and interrogation. The only time we were able to sleep on our backs was when our cellmates were tortured and interrogated outside of our cells. Very often, those who read my story ask me how I was able to remain peaceful and compassionate in the face of such brutality and humiliation.

There was one guard who was unlike the others: Sergeant Hassan, a Shi’a man from southern Iraq. Hassan’s people were also treated terribly by the regime due to their supposed allegiance to the Iranian government. Hassan would show us kindness, routinely buying us small items and smuggling them into our cells. He would let us stay out a little longer when we were afforded opportunities to go outside, and he made sure we got medical attention when we needed it. When family members would come to the doors of the prison to bring us food, he was the only guard who would make sure the food reached us. It occurred to me that in some ways, this place was just as much a prison for Hassan as it was for us.

I had small pieces of paper and a small pencil smuggled in by Sergeant Hassan. On these pieces of paper, I did what I had done my entire life—I wrote and felt free. I expressed myself and continued to live even behind these bars through my poetry. I would pen “Tell Ewar” to my eldest daughter, who lived so much of her childhood with her father imprisoned:

After two years in this prison, without a trial or lawyer, I was pardoned on Saddam Hussein’s birthday, along with hundreds of others, as a sign of his “humanity.” The fear of this inhumane treatment never left me. My family, which included a loving wife, two daughters, and a son, and I needed to be free of the Iraqi dictatorship.

In 1996, about five years after my release from prison, a bloody civil war broke out in Kurdistan between two rival Kurdish political parties. Writers, poets, and artists were once again targeted. As before, armed men came to our door in the middle of the night. This time, I was able to sneak into our neighbour’s household until we could understand why they were there. When it was confirmed that they had come to take me away, I knew it was time to leave my homeland. In a few short days, I had contacted a smuggler who had been recommended to me, and a few short days after that, I was to meet him to retrieve a fake passport that would allow me to leave the country. When near the border town of Zakho, there was another man who could get me a visa to enter Ankara, Turkey. This man would then give me the address of a third man, who would smuggle me from Turkey to Greece if I were able to make it to Istanbul on my own. From Greece, I would then seek out ways to bring my family to our new home.

I attempted to go to Istanbul by plane, but upon arrival, airport officials were waiting for me at the end of the gate. My heart sank. They apprehended me and told me they knew my passport was forged but were willing to give the passport back should I have any bribe for them. After giving them USD 300, I was able to take my forged documents but would be sent back to Ankara.

I had two options upon my return to Ankara. I could make another attempt to enter Istanbul through a private driver or bus, or I could apply at the UN office in Ankara for refugee status.

I remembered my geography teacher telling me about a distant place called Canada, about the forests that were as big as Kurdistan. I always wondered if someone lost in these forests could find their way out. I was compelled to experience this for myself, and even after being told I would be forced to wait longer as a refugee to get to Canada, I committed to it.

I spent eleven months in Turkey, with seven of them being finally accompanied by my family. We spent those months in a small three-hundred-square-foot rental apartment that we shared with another Kurdish family. There were two bedrooms, each shared by one family. We had no money other than that which we had brought with us and no ability to work. We simply had to sit and endure, and every day, we were expected to check into the refugee office while dodging police who were not particularly fond of Kurdish refugees. Finally, after this long wait, we were sponsored by the Canadian government and able to come to Edmonton in 1998. Our journey in Canada was also not short of adversity. My wife and I found part-time jobs soon after we settled and found some time for ESL classes. It was difficult, though, to start over with three children. Initially, I did not have much time to write, but I still found little opportunities during the day to slip away and work on a few poems.

Then, in the year 2000, two years after we had landed in Canada, a friend of mine from work at a pizza delivery shop suggested I should publish a poem of mine in their community’s local newspaper. The poem I chose to publish was “War,” the first self-censored omission from Dancing in the Evening Snow. It was the first time I had published something freely and the first time I had published anything in Canada.

A Writer in Exile

I have been on this journey as a writer my whole life. In the early days, this path was filled with hazards and stop signs warning me not to explore what I longed to explore. It was not until I came to Canada that these boundaries and borders were removed, and I was able to publish my books. Not only was I given the ability to write what I wanted without censorship; I was also honored for my ability to write.

In 2007, I was named PEN Canada’s first Writer in Exile, providing me with one year of exploring ideas with other writers, a year to share in their journeys and to add to mine. I went from being a prisoner for my ideas to being hired to write about them.

I was given an office in the Edmonton Public Library. This library was noisier than the one I fell in love with in Erbil, but this time, I went to the library as a free writer. It also seemed to have more life. But I think this may have had more to do with my feelings than the library.

During this time, I was paid by the University of Alberta Press to write and publish two books. One was a prison memoir, The Man in Blue Pajamas, about my life under Saddam Hussein. It was exciting for me to go to my office every day and smell coffee from the cafés on the ground floor. It smelled like freedom.

But it was not always easy. It was a challenge to shape my books from the original language and culture into a new language with entirely new culturally specific ways of expression. I still had the pieces of paper that I had written on and then smuggled out of prison. I carried them with me when I crossed borders. During my fellowship, I kept these on my desk in the Edmonton Public Library, and when I looked at them, I remembered the unspeakably tragic period I had been through. However, I knew that creating art with words and emotions from my dark past was a relief. I was able to freely express what was in my heart and openly share my journey and my story.

Another challenge was discovering myself as a non-fiction writer. Since 1970, I had written poetry, where I used few words to create a blank canvas on which a reader could paint with their own mind. Now I was also writing non-fiction, which meant that every piece of a story had to be told in detail. I found that when I wrote non-fiction, my life did not go from birth to childhood to adulthood; nothing progressed in a straight line. I have been a refugee since childhood, always on the move. My life has been lived in pieces, and turning these pieces into a readable story for Western readers was difficult.

It was also challenging to be a writer in a new country where I could not fully express myself in the spoken language. But by having my story and poems translated into English and published by the University of Alberta Press, I have had the chance to introduce my work to a new audience. The same writing, the same voice, the same spirit that I was punished for in the country where I was born was now giving me the opportunity to continue my journey without restrictions in Canada. I held these stories in my memory for so many years, long before I went on to write about them in my books. I wrote them in my mind while in a library converted into a jail, and then I wrote them on paper in an office in a library in my new home.

And so my story begins and ends with many different homes. To those immigrants and refugees who may wonder, like I did, what home is anymore—who may ask, “Is it the place where you are born and have your first memories?,” “Is it the place where your mother is?,” or “Is it this new place I am now?”—I offer, maybe home is not just the place where you were born, created your first memories, and began your life journey; perhaps it is also the place that makes you the best version of yourself. In the process of creating new homes, a person does not need to leave their roots, their childhood, their memories, or their culture. We can and should carry our identities with us wherever we go and share them with others in our new homes.