L'esecuzione di Farzad Kamangar

In memoria dell'esecuzione di Farzad Kamangar (di cui abbiamo già parlato a proposito del romanzo “Lullaby”) vi proponiamo questo intervento che ci ha mandato l'associazione Novel Rights, con cui collaboriamo e che vogliamo ringraziare. Dear Friends and supporters, Today we mark the 5th anniversary of Farzad Kamangar's execution. "How did Farzad move so many people? Was it something in his voice, spreading across the internet and making him one of the most influential Iranian figures of 2010? Did he hypnotize us with his poems? His letters? Farzad Kamangar couldn’t stop his torturers from breaking his chin and teeth, but he was able to maintain the life within him through imagination and literature. “I won’t let them kill me inside,” was his goal—and he reached it."

Ava Homa/ Author; Lullaby

“I will eventually get out of here. The butterfly that flew away in the night told me my fortune,” Farzad Kamangar wrote in prison, shortly before the Iranian government made the decision to place a noose around his neck.

It was on May 10, 2010—Mother’s Day—that Farzad’s mother heard through the media that her son, who had been told he would be released, was killed.

“He had such a tender soul. He loved his students to pieces. Spring was his favorite season. He was born in spring,” his mother says in a video posted on YouTube. But tears stop her from continuing—from telling us that he was executed in his favorite season.

This man who loved spring and his students was charged with moharebeh (enmity with God and the state) and terrorism. It is true. Teaching young children their banned mother tongue terrorizes the Iranian oppressor.

Farzad Kamangar was tremendously popular, cherished by Kurds and non-Kurds, young and old, men and women. The love others had for him was, ironically, what convinced the authorities to execute him despite his obvious innocence. Popularity terrorizes dictators, who are nourished by hostility and antipathy in their nation.

How did Farzad move so many people? Was it something in his voice, spreading across the internet and making him one of the most influential Iranian figures of 2010? Did he hypnotize us with his poems? His letters?

Farzad Kamangar couldn’t stop his torturers from breaking his chin and teeth, but he was able to maintain the life within him through imagination and literature. “I won’t let them kill me inside,” was his goal—and he reached it.

In one of his letters—hich are still available on the internet—he describes being transported to Sanandaj Prison, Kurdistan. He paints a vivid picture of Kurdistan in the autumn for us through his view—not only from the window of the plane, but also through the window of his imagination. He writes little about his anguish, but instead about his moments of falling in love while listening to the music of legendary singer Abbas Kamandy and of hiking the Awyar Mountain. He is distracted from these memories only when the bitterness of the blood he accidentally swallows threatens to suffocate him.

The prison guard who anxiously checks that Farzad has survived a severe beating doesn’t know, cannot know, that Farzad, in his mind, is dancing at his wedding, waving his chopi—his handkerchief—in the air and shouting, “Cheers! Cheers to all the prisoners’ mothers who are awaiting reunion with their children. Cheers to all the men and women who lost their lives for their ideals.”

That is what has made Farzad Kamangar a legend. He is one of the few people on the planet—like Nelson Mandela, like Leila Zana—who was not broken under torture.

Farzad Kamangar / Illustration: Tamar Levi

Farzad Kamangar was a teacher devoted to improving the life of village children. He was all too familiar with suffering, both directly in his own life and indirectly through others’ experiences. Farzad knew the pain of Kurds, the pain of ethnocide and linguicide. He was familiar with the widespread poverty in Kurdistan resulting from politicization of the region, with the abuse and violence suffered by women because of the government’s gender policies. For Farzad, the hurt wasn’t just the physical torture he endured—it was the pain of his nation.

His voice, his imagination, his words, his ability to touch the agony of others made Farzad Kamangar an icon representing all political prisoners who have been executed at the hands of the Iranian government. He was and still is a strong inspiration. He continues to live in the heart of all those who admire him. His voice continues to be heard not only through his own writing, but also in the poems and stories he inspired.

Novel Rights has published a short story inspired by Farzad Kamangar’s letters from prison: “Lullaby” offers a glimpse of his powerful reality.

By Buying “Lullaby Novel Rights ePUB Short Stroy written by Ava Homa, You will help us to create more HRL (Human Rights Literature) short stories and produce many more events around the globe promoting literature that supports human rights values.

Lullaby: la prigionia del curdo Kamangar e la bellezza della gioventù

Lullaby, della scrittrice Ava Homa, si basa sulla storia vera di Farzad Kamangar. Un insegnante di scuola elementare e avvocato civilista del Kurdistan iraniano arrestato dalle forze di sicurezza nel 2006 e accusato di collaborare con i gruppi di opposizione curdi. Kamagar è stato accusato di essere un mohareb o "nemico di Dio", ma si è rifiutato di confessare, nonostante quattro anni di detenzione e tortura; le sue lettere dalla cella hanno portato le più importanti organizzazioni internazionali, come l'UNICEF, a condannare la sua prigionia.                 




Il lavoro di Ava Homa è apparso in The Literary Review of Canada, Toronto Quarterly, Windsor Review, il Toronto Star e Rabble. La sua opera riguarda sempre la resistenza da parte delle donne iraniane moderne. Le storie sono raccontate su scala universale e parlano di sentimenti come l'amore e la passione (anche politica).
Ava Homa è un giornalista, scrive sul giornale Bas, insegna scrittura creativa e inglese al George Brown College di Toronto. Ava Homa è stata esiliata dal Kurdistan nel 2007 e ha dovuto lasciare la sua famiglia e gli amici.

Ecco, per voi, un brano tratto da Lullaby. Per avere altre notizie sul libro: www.novelrights.com

"La chiamata risuona. Mi dico che gli studenti stanno ancora imparando, in segreto, la storia dei curdi. L'invito alla preghiera echeggia nella prigione di Evin. Mi avvolge di freddo e paura.

Passi! Conosco il suono di quegli stivali pesanti. Io li conosco bene. La mia penna cade dal letto e mi arriccio in una palla, contrazione di paura. Il dolore alla testa e al viso, alle gambe e alla schiena, allo stomaco e alle costole diventa più nitido. Stringermi al cuscino non mi impedisce di tremare. I passi si fermano prima di raggiungere il mio rione. "Mani in alto," penso, e lo dico quasi ad alta voce.

"Mani in alto", dice la vecchia guardia.

So quello che stanno facendo in altre cellule. La benda, lo scatto delle manette e le guardie prendono Ali, con spinte e calci.

Mi tiro su e mi giro e nella mia testa li seguo, come Ali è trascinato al piano di sotto, trascinato giù per le scale e a portata di mano per diciannove interrogatori. Sotto la sua benda, Ali conterà le paia di scarpe in camera: quattro, sei, otto. . . nero, scarpe formali che fanno tutt'uno con il sangue, levigate dal sangue. La fustigazione inizierà subito dopo le maledizioni. Se l'uomo che chiamano "bastardo" è lì, l'interrogatorio durerà più a lungo e sarà molto più doloroso. Ogni curdo conosce la strana voce di quell'uomo, un insolito mix di alto e basso. Nel suo vocabolario, "fottuti selvaggi assassini" significa "curdi." Si dice che il fratello di Mongrel sia stato ucciso in Kurdistan trent'anni fa durante una delle rivolte. Cinque, sei frustate e Ali penserà ai campi di concentramento, alle piramidi, alla Grande Muraglia cinese, ma lui non sentirà più le frustate. Spero.

Il numero di crepe sul muro è 305, oggi. Io di nascosto tiro fuori una penna da sotto il materasso e prendo un po 'di carta, ripiegata quattro volte, dal mio abbigliamento intimo. "Cari studenti," Scrivo, sdraiata sulla mia sinistra su una coperta militare puzzolente. "Tutto quello che ho potuto fare per voi è di insegnare segretamente il nostro alfabeto curdo, la nostra letteratura e la nostra storia. Per favore, ricordateli ai bambini e trasmettete il vostro patrimonio. Cari piccoli, non permettete che questa conoscenza vi rubi la gioia dell'infanzia. Possiate mantenere la gioia dei giovani nella vostra mente per sempre. Può essere l'unico e solo investimento che potrete utilizzare in seguito, quando avrete la necessità di guadagnare del 'pane e burro', cari figli “dominanti” e quando dovrete vincere il peccato di essere il “secondo sesso”, care figlie. Quando raccoglierete i fiori nelle valli per fare corone per i vostri bambini, raccontate loro della purezza e della felicità dell'infanzia. Ricordatevi di non voltare le spalle ai vostri sogni e amori, alla musica, alla poesia e alla magica natura del Kurdistan. State insieme, cantate le canzoni e recitate la poesia come siamo abituati a fare. "

"The call rings out. I tell the students are still learning, in secret, the history of the Kurds. The call to prayer echoes Evin prison. It turns me cold with fear.

Steps! I know the sound of those heavy boots. I know them well. My pen falls out of bed and I curl into a ball, the contraction of fear. The pain in my head and face, legs and back, stomach and ribs become much sharper. Clutching the pillow does not prevent me from shaking. The footsteps stopped before reaching my ward. "Hands up," I think, and almost say it out loud.

"Hands up," says the old guard.

I know what they are doing in other cells. The blindfold, the click of the handcuffs, and the guards take out Ali, pushing and kicking.

I toss and turn, and I follow them in my head as Ali is taken downstairs, dragged nineteen steps to the right, down the stairs and handed nineteen interrogations. Under his blindfold, Ali will count the pairs of shoes in the room, four, six, eight. . . black, formal shoes that are thick with blood, smoothed by the blood. Flogging will begin immediately after the curses. If the man they call "bastard" is there, the questioning will last longer and will be much more painful. Every Kurd knows strange man's voice, an unusual mix of high and low. In his vocabulary, "fucking murdering savages" means "the Kurds." It is said that his brother had been killed in Kurdistan Mongrel thirty years ago during one of the riots. Five, six lashes and Ali will think about the concentration camps, the pyramids, the Great Wall of China, but he no longer feels the flogging. I hope.

The number of cracks on the wall 305 is today. I sneak a pen out from under the mattress and take a bit 'of paper, folded four times, from my underwear. "Dear students," I write, lying on my left side on a blanket military smelly. "All I could do for you is to teach secretly our Kurdish alphabet, our literature and our history. Please, kids, remember your heritage and transmit it. Dear children, do not allow this knowledge to steal from you the joy of childhood. May you keep the joy of the young people in your mind forever. It may be the one and only investment you can use later, when the agony of earning the 'bread and butter' you, my children dominates, and the sin of being 'second sex' you win, my daughters. When you are picking flowers in the valleys to make crowns for your children, tell them about the purity and happiness of childhood. Remember not to turn on the back on your dreams, love, music, poetry and magical nature of Kurdistan. Getting together, sing songs and recite poetry as we usually do."