The life of an intellectual is a long and arduous one. Every century a few pivotal figures become the articulators of their community’s aspirations and concerns. Their guidance propels humanity toward a brighter future. Driven by a desire to enlighten those around them, they prioritize justice and transparency over gaining favor with the government or business elites. In developed countries with civil and democratic systems, such intellectuals are celebrated as national treasures. However, in undemocratic regimes, their reward is often arrest, imprisonment, or even death, as rulers perceive them as threats to their power and thus seek to silence their voices.
A number of such figures emerged in Kurdish society during the 20th century. As a young man, however, I particularly admired two individuals dedicated to education and wisdom: Edip Karahan and Musa Anter. Both hailed from Northern Kurdistan (southeastern Turkey) and grew to be revered as legendary figures who sought to shine the light of truth on an uninformed society, but were ultimately pursued and cut down by powerful governments. As a teenager, I immersed myself in books and forbidden poetry and aspired to emulate these intellectual giants. I yearned for their company, advice, and insights. By the time I reached adulthood, Karahan had passed away, but Anter lived on.
Without trace of resentment
Born in the village of Eskimagara in Mardin Province, as a young man Anter moved to Istanbul to study law. Anter was criticized by nationalist Turkish writers and journalists for his 1959 poem “Qimil,” and was arrested and even threatened with execution. Still, he emerged unbowed from his time in prison, connecting with Kurdish intellectuals in Istanbul, and eventually returned to his roots with a wealth of knowledge.
Seeking solace and truth, Anter left Istanbul and returned to his homeland, settling in a village near the city of Nusaybin in Mardin Province in Turkey rather than the city itself. I was residing in Nusaybin at the time. Having grown weary of writing slogans, and after engaging in materialistic philosophy debates, I found the idea of a dictatorship of the proletariat increasingly unappealing. The senseless pursuit of one-party rule and the political restrictions on writing in Kurdish had left me disillusioned. Perhaps taking the risk of writing in Kurdish would awaken me to my true identity. In 1978, I visited Anter in Stilil with two friends.
Despite the persecution Anter had endured, when we visited him on that summer day, he greeted us warmly without a trace of resentment. Though only a few years older than us, he possessed a worldly wisdom and experience beyond his age.
During our visit, Anter cooked for us in his garden, which was adorned with trees, flowers, and a tranquil water pond. Our conversation delved deeply into various philosophical and scholarly realms. Upon learning of my decision to write in Kurdish, he expressed both happiness and concern, aware of the potential consequences. However, when I mentioned my plans to leave the country, his demeanor brightened. He recommended Sweden – where his family had settled – as a place to improve my language skills and freely pursue writing.
Before the 1980 coup, I made my way to Sweden via Syria, Germany, and Norway. A decade later, I returned to a turbulent Turkey. Anter remained in Stilil. Concerned for my safety, my brother advised against visiting him. Instead, we brought him to our home. Our reunion was filled with joy and happiness. I interviewed him for a Kurdistan Press article titled “Interview with a 75-Year-Old Man.” Afterward, fearing repercussions, I quickly published the interview and distanced myself.
Undertaking a fraught path
After marrying a year later, Anter moved back to Istanbul. During our weeklong visit, I proudly shared my work and discussed plans for a new magazine, Nudem. Musa Anter enthusiastically agreed to contribute. His article for the first issue focused on Nusaybin, but tragically, he did not live to see the second. I published the devastating news of his murder in the third issue.
At the printing house, sharing the news with my friend Emin Bozarslan was heart-wrenching. His reaction was profound. At first, he was frozen in place, and, fearing he might collapse, I placed myself under his arm so that he wouldn’t fall to the ground and faint.
The loss of Anter was a profound shock to the Kurdish intellectual and cultural world. His absence left an irreplaceable void. His murder was not merely a personal tragedy, but a symbol of the relentless persecution faced by Kurdish intellectuals.
In the aftermath of his death, I became increasingly aware of the dangers I faced. The state’s hostility towards Kurdish intellectuals was evident, and I knew I had to be cautious. Yet, Anter’s memory and unwavering commitment to truth inspired me to continue our shared struggle.
I dedicated myself to preserving Anter’s legacy and carrying forward his intellectual pursuits. I worked tirelessly to document his life and work, to ensure that his ideas and contributions would not be forgotten. It was a challenging and often perilous task, but I felt a deep responsibility to honor his memory.
The path ahead was fraught with obstacles, but I was determined to overcome them. I knew that I stood on the shoulders of giants, and that the struggle for Kurdish rights and cultural expression would continue. Musa Anter’s spirit lived on within me, a constant source of inspiration and strength.
Firat Jeweri is a Kurdish writer, translator and journalist from Mardin, Türkiye. He has written more than ten books in Kurdish and translated literary works of John Steinbeck, Chekhov, Dostoevsky, Astrid Lindgren, Yaşar Kemal and Henning Mankell into Kurdish.
