Essays on Modern Kurdish Literature 9783110630039, 9783110634686, 9783110631470

Table of contents :
Acknowledgements
Contents
Introduction
Shared Ownership and Kurdish Folklore
Resist Diyarbakır, Resist: Exploring Kurdish Literary Intelligentsia in Diyarbakır
Tales of Woe, Ruthless Foes, and Patriotic Heroes: A Historical-Literary Study of Kurdish (Dis)unity in the Early Modern Era
Sherko Bekas and the Emergence of Postnational Kurdish Literature
Re-evaluation of the Yārsān Texts and its Impact on Kurdish Literature
Kurdish Music as Literature: Some Historical Considerations
Kurdish Women’s Feminist Poetry: Developing a Voice in Southern Kurdistan and the Diaspora
Kurdish Women in Fiction and a History of Violence, Displacement, and Migration
General Index

Citation preview

Essays on Modern Kurdish Literature

Studies on Modern Orient

Volume 39

Essays on Modern Kurdish Literature Edited by Alireza Korangy and Mahlagha Mortezaee

ISBN 978-3-11-063003-9 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-063468-6 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-063147-0 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023933212 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2023 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Cover image: The Sahmaran-Legend, iStock/Getty Images Plus, #172986664, tunart Typesetting: Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

This book is dedicated to the talented, beautiful, passionate, and the unparalleled sense of strive and rigor they inspire: my daughter Iran Ghazal Korangy and the lionesses of the Kurdish world

Acknowledgements First and foremost, I would like to thank the authors for their persistence and their herculean efforts, not to mention the love they have shown for the subject and their integrity and cordiality in the process. Their passionate rigor is unparalleled. I would like to thank my daughter Iran Ghazal Korangy whose willful gusto for perfection inspires me to do my best without respite. Thank you Iran for being my pillar of strength, love, and unrelenting rigor. Without you in my life, I am all but nothing. I love you for your support, your sensitivity beyond your seven years, and your care for humanity. You have made me see the “world in a grain of sand/ and heaven in a wild flower” William Blake (Auguries of Innocence, ll. 1-2) almost everyday since you were born and were mine and my own re-birth. I would like to thank the academic blessing of my life, who, to me represents the apogee of excellence and unmatched academic success, Wheeler M. Thackston, who taught me Kurdish [and all else that I know and am a student of] and its vastly beautiful horizons; and never let up on me. I would like to thank Walther de Gruyter’s Sophie Wagenhofer, the acquisition editor of this book, without whose efforts this would not be; and also Katharina Zuehlke whose editorial excellence and judiciousness is beyond praiseworthy and who will unfortunately be leaving De Gruyter. I feel lucky to have worked with her. Last, but not least, many heartfelt thanks go to Antonia Pohl of De Gruyter who finalized this project with rigor. Editor Alireza Korangy

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110634686-202

Contents Acknowledgements  Alireza Korangy Introduction 

 VII

 1

Michael L. Chyet Shared Ownership and Kurdish Folklore 

 5

Özlem Belçim Galip Resist Diyarbakır, Resist: Exploring Kurdish Literary Intelligentsia in Diyarbakır   19 Sacha Alsancakli Tales of Woe, Ruthless Foes, and Patriotic Heroes: A Historical-Literary Study of Kurdish (Dis)unity in the Early Modern Era   39 Marouf Cabi Sherko Bekas and the Emergence of Postnational Kurdish Literature  Azadeh Vatanpour Re-evaluation of the Yārsān Texts and its Impact on Kurdish Literature  Jon E. Bullock Kurdish Music as Literature: Some Historical Considerations 

 147

Shilan Fuad Hussain Kurdish Women’s Feminist Poetry: Developing a Voice in Southern Kurdistan and the Diaspora   171 Lolav Alhamid Kurdish Women in Fiction and a History of Violence, Displacement, and Migration   193 General Index 

 215

 97

 129

Alireza Korangy

Introduction Kurdish literature has a long and tumultuous history. If we are to only approach the study of Kurdish literature from a prosaic and poetic perspective i. e., not including non-fiction, we will not be privy to other forms of Kurdish literature that yield a sense of tumult—at least not as much as it has endured it. Certainly, what is most prominent in Kurdish literature, particularly in its fictional corpora, is a romanticized (indeed nostalgic) sense of existence deeply immersed in nationalistic fervor and folkloric pride. In its other genres of literature this is no less true. Kurdish non-fiction has always been subject to censure in places where Kurds possessed a laudable voice. In Kurdish histories, by Kurds, we see a sense of superfluousness ridden with praise of Kurdishness entwined with a regret, at times, for not having had decent leadership. This has often led to discourses that yawp the chagrin of being devoid of having the ability in realizing their potential, particularly in Kurdish history recent—and in many cases past. All said, it is in literature, images, and metaphor that much of a nation’s history is embedded. This volume began hoping to capture a far wider scope of Kurdish literature, i.e., Classical Kurdish, however, at some point the modern became its focus. As do such foci go, one is bound to notice, in treatment of the present, a fealty to the past and the fledglings of the progenesis of all literary works, in fact. Here, it has been the same. In many of the essays solicited we see this phenomenon at full play. The articles in this volume address many facets of what is considered literary: literary resistance, proverbs, feminist literariness, resistance in literary works, poetry, prose, etc. In the end, the volume offers a general paradigm of the complex literary framework of the Kurds, their continuous resistance for nationhood in their history, and their modern reinventing of the self. A philologist of the highest order, Michael L. Chyet, in his novel article, “Shared ownership and Kurdish folklore” addresses Shared ownership of proverbs in the region. It is a succinct study of borrowed proverbs, sometimes from the Kurds, and at other times by the Kurds. These borrowings are certainly nuanced and point to a cultural redefining of these proverbs and their specific social and linguistic schematizations. The thorough examples given by Chyet, therein, highlight a nuanced cultural continuity, which at times, Chyet, in so many words, says, can be disputed. Chyet does dispel some of these disputed claims but ultimately offers an interesting look into proverbs in the region and highlights a clear sense of borrowing. “Resist Diyarbakır, Resist: Exploring Kurdish Literary Intelligentsia in Diyarbakır”, by Özlem Belçim Galip addresses the literary resistance famously associated with Diyarbakir and the consequent rise of some of the most potent literary https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110634686-001

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 Alireza Korangy

productions for the Kurds in Turkey. Galip addresses the often-overlooked entities that contribute greatly to a literary tradition: journals, publication houses, associations, etc. She speaks to narrative and space and by doing so gives rise to discussions that will rate further discursive as to their importance within the context of nationhood and literary resistance: “In this case, Kurdish writers, translators, and publishers based in Diyarbakır have adjusted themselves in accord with Diyarbakır’s spatial dynamics, its cultural implications, and its social and political reality. They do so by daily and close engagement with one another—and the public”. Sacha Alsancakli writes, in her contribution “Tales of woe, ruthless foes, and patriotic heroes: A historical-literary study of Kurdish (dis)unity in the early modern era”, From Idrīs Bidlīsī’s description of the Kurds as a “mountainous people, endowed with an innate striving for independence and internecine strife” (ahl-i jibāl-i majbūl bar istiqlāl-ārā va mukhālifat bā aqrān va akfā), to Sharaf Khān’s assertion that “the Kurdish tribes do not defer nor submit to one another, and have no unity among themselves” (ṭavāyif-i Akrād mutābi‘at va muṭāva‘at-i hamdīgar namīkunand va ittifāq nadārand), to Ehmedê Xanî’s claim that “if [the Kurds] could reach unity / And act in close solidarity / The Turks, Arabs, and Persians would, surely / become [their] servants entirely” (Ger dê hebuwa me ittifaqek / Vêkra bikira me jî wufaqek / Rom û ‘Ereb û ‘Ecem temamî / Hemiyan ji me ra dikir xulamî), references to Kurdish unity, or the lack thereof, are rather ubiquitous in the major texts penned by Kurds—and about the Kurds—in early modern times.

As such, this work addresses the compromised unity of the Kurds as described by the Kurdish literati and historiographers, among others. Marouf Cabi’s “Sherko Bekas and the Emergence of Postnational Kurdish Literature”, puts under purview the literary map of Sorani Kurdish literature under the rubric of a study on perhaps the greatest twentieth-century Sorani poet Sherko Bekas. Cabi begins with a study of the historical literary transformation in Kurdish to better bring to perspective Bekas’s contribution and a major theme in the essay that is “post-national trend” in contemporary works: A historical overview of the course of modern Kurdish literature outlines the distinguishing characteristics of the two literary transformations in the turn of the twentieth and twenty first centuries. The sections in this chapter are organized accordingly in order to historicize Bekas’s poetry and argue for a postnational trend based on a transformation just short of a metamorphosis in the poetry of one of the most celebrated poets of modern Kurdish literature. His career reflects many aspects of the course taken by Kurdish literature, while he emphatically champions the new trend in his latest works, signaling a decisive literary rupture with the past.

Azadeh Vatanpour’s brilliant engagement with “Re-evaluation of the Yārsān Texts and its Impact on Kurdish Literature” brings to life a less-studied subject. This essay

Introduction 

 3

looks at Yārsanī literature under the auspices of three periods before the cycle of Sultan Sahak Barzanji, a most impactful leader of the group: the literature prior and those that ensued. She focuses on the transmission of Kurdish and Yārsān cultural, social, and literary nuances via the Yārsān literature, while highlighting some studied works from the Zagros region. This novel work highlights literary works as historiography and serves as a substantial platform for later studies. Jon E. Bullock discusses in his “Kurdish Music as Literature: Some Historical Considerations”, the phenomenon of music as poetical memory. Among other novel thoughts and ideas, the discussions on ‘Ebdułła Goran’s reliance of folkloric music to set the stage for the future of prosody in Kurdish poetry are most engaging and point to a far wider influence as concerns music, prosody, and poetry—not only in the Kurdish world, but also as it concerns world literature. He examines the ways in which musical practice in the century preceding Goran’s reforms both reflected and diverged from the unique challenges of Kurdish language standardization and the development of a Kurdish literary medium. Furthermore, it argues that while political environments differed across time and space, music transcended national borders in ways that printed texts could not—and did not—, in many cases reaching a far wider audience.

These two essays, Shilan Fuad Hussain’s “Kurdish Women’s Feminist Poetry: Developing a Voice in Southern Kurdistan and the Diaspora”, and Lolav Alhamid’s “Kurdish Women in Fiction: A History of Violence, Displacement, and Migration (A Case Study of Kurdish Novelistic Discourse in Bahdinan), are necessary interventions in the field of Kurdish literary studies as they delve deep into the nuances of women’s poetry and prose in the Kurdish regions which underline a struggle that warrants a resistance on two fronts: within and without. These essays bring to the forefront, not only brilliant poetical and prose works but also something far more important: women fight along Kurdish brethren for nationhood, and yet they have to fight for their own humanity and equality within their own communities. All said, this volume should be yet another installment in the vast field of Kurdish studies, merely setting the stage for many more studies to come.

Michael L. Chyet

Shared Ownership and Kurdish Folklore Abstract: I examine the concept of ‘shared ownership’ in folklore, through a comparative study of Kurdish and other Middle Eastern proverbs and folk expressions. I begin with a few examples of shared ownership, such as baklava, a Middle Eastern pastry which every people in the region claims as their own, and the song known in Turkish as “Üsküdar”, the melody of which is shared by all the neighboring peoples: Greeks, Albanians, Serbs, Macedonians, Bulgarians. This is followed by eight examples from Kurdish folklore, with equivalents in the folklore of the neighboring peoples (Persians, Turks, Assyrians, Kurdish Jews, Armenians, etc.). A few months before his demise, my professor Alan Dundes, the great American folklorist, introduced me to the Bulgarian documentary film “Chiya e tazi pesen?” [Whose song is this?]. The film was made by the Bulgarian ethnomusicologist Adela Peeva. Several years ago, she was in Istanbul on a visit, and one evening an international group of friends gathered for dinner at a restaurant. That evening, a woman appeared on the stage, and sang the Turkish song “Üsküdar”. After she finished singing the song, each one of Adela’s friends insisted that that song was in fact from his or her respective country. One said, “This song is Greek!”, another said, “No, it’s Albanian”!” A third claimed it was Serbian, and a fourth maintained that it was Macedonian. Adela herself was sure that she had heard that tune in Bulgaria as well. After that evening, Ms. Peeva decided to make a tour of the Balkan countries in search of that song. She started in Turkey, then proceeded to Greece, Albania, Bosnia, Serbia and Macedonia, ending up in Bulgaria. Dr. Alan Dundes loved the documentary film which resulted from her tour, because he regarded it as a sterling example of the concept of “shared ownership”. The exact provenance of the song was not resolved by the end of the film, but it was clear that the tune had spread to the lands of the Balkan Peninsula at an early date, and today each of the nations of the region considers that song – or that melody, to be more exact – to be part and parcel of its national heritage. Another example of shared ownership is the delicious Middle Eastern pastry known as baklava. Is baklava originally Kurdish or Turkish or Greek or Armenian or Arab or Assyrian? If asked, each one of these peoples will no doubt claim to be the inventor of baklava. What we can assert about both of these examples is that each of the neighboring peoples of a given region claims this tune or this pastry for itself. Whatever the actual origin of these items is, today each of them is claimed by several different nations: this is “shared ownership”. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110634686-002

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 Michael L. Chyet

In what follows, we will examine some proverbs and sayings from Kurdish folklore which are shared by neighboring peoples. 1. When one recovers from an illness or is rescued from an unpleasant situation, or when one returns safely from a journey, it is customary to wish that person Derbazbûyî be [lit. ‘May it be passed/over’]. Many people consider this to be borrowed from Turkish, because the Turks say Geçmiş olsun [‘May it be passed’] in the same situation. If this expression existed only in Kurdish and Turkish, I might also be tempted to suspect that it was of Turkish origin. However, since the same expression also exists in Armenian, Greek and Albanian, and is used under the same conditions, the matter is not as simple as that. In Armenian one says: Antsadz əllā Անցած ըլլայ [antsnal = to pass; ants-adz = passed; əllā = may it be] In Greek one says: Perastiká Περαστικά [perno = I pass; perastika = things which have passed] In Albanian one says: Qoftë e shkuar [qoftë = may it be; e shkuar = gone, passed] It seems that Derbazbûyî be, etc. is an Ottoman expression, as it is found in at least five languages of the Ottoman Empire.1 A dissenting view of this Kurdish greeting has been suggested by my friend Fexrî Seker, a native of the village of Farê north of Diyarbakir. He is 38 years old as of this writing, and according to him the expression appeared only after he graduated from high school (ca. 2000). He has asked several members of the older generation in his village if they say Derbazbûyî be, and they do not. Instead they say any of the following: Xwedê şîfa xêrê bide/bişîne (May God give/send a cure of goodness) Xwedê şîfayê bide/bişîne (May God give/send a cure) Xwedê silametî bide/bişîne (May God give/send safety) Xwedê silametîya xêrê bide/bişîne (May God give/send the safety of goodness)

1 In Arabic, when one returns home safely, instead of the expression under discussion, it is usual to say: al-ḥamdu lillāh ‘alá al-salāmah ‫( الحمد لله على السالمة‬Praise be to God for your safety).

Shared Ownership and Kurdish Folklore 

 7

Fexrî concludes that the younger generation has switched to Derbazbûyî be under Turkish influence, and he has several other examples of this phenomenon to support his assertion.2 More research is required on this before a definitive statement can be made. 2. Another expression which at first blush appears to be borrowed from Turkish is the following: In Kurmanji: Çi heye, çi t’une? [=What is there, what isn’t there?] In Turkish: Ne var, ne yok? [=What is there, what isn’t there?] Once again, if this expression existed only in these two languages, one could claim that Çi heye, çi t’une? was borrowed from Turkish into Kurmanji. However, this expression also exists in Sorani, Zaza, Armenian, Neo-Aramaic [Modern Syriac] and Iraqi Arabic: In Sorani [Central Kurdish]: ‫چی هه یه چی نیه‬ Çî heye, çî niye? [=What is there, what isn’t there?] In Zaza [Dumilî]: Çiçî esto çiçî ç’nîo, or, Çi esto çi ç’nîo3 [=What is there, what isn’t there?] In Armenian: Inch ga, ch’ga? Ինչ կայ, չ’կայ? [=What is there, isn’t there?] In Northeastern Neo-Aramaic (NENA), as spoken in Iraq and Iran: Mu: it, mu: lit? ?‫ܡܘ ܐܝܬ ܡܘ ܠܝܬ‬ [=What is there, what isn’t there?]

2 Personal communication, as yet unpublished. 3 The Zaza specialist Bahri Demir is the source of the Zaza versions. Visit his Zaza language and folklore website at: http://www.dimilki.net/.

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 Michael L. Chyet

In Iraqi Arabic: Shakū mākū? ‫شكو ماكو؟‬ [=What is there, isn’t there?] As with the previous expression (Derbazbûyî be), this one is also found in a number of languages of the Ottoman Empire. While some Kurmanji speakers suspect that this is a Turkish borrowing, it is popular among Sorani-speaking Kurds as well. The Sorani native speakers that I consulted did not find the expression objectionable. They live in areas where the dominant languages are Arabic [Iraq] and Persian [Iran]. The largest group of Kurmanji speakers, on the other hand, live in Turkey, although Kurmanji is also spoken in Syria, Iraq and Iran. In point of fact, we cannot say that either of these two expressions originated in Turkish; it is possible that the Greeks or Armenians or Kurds were using them before the arrival of the Turks in the region, and that the Turks borrowed them from their new neighbors. 3. Our next example is an extremely old saying which is shared by several modern languages, but which we now know from recent research has a pedigree which goes back thousands of years before the common era. The expression is: Ava bin kaê [=Water under the straw]. This expression also exists in Zaza, Persian, Turkish and Neo-Aramaic, and a similar expression can also be found in Arabic. When speaking of an insincere person, a trickster or a shyster, this saying can be used. Imagine that someone claims that he has a pit full of grain, which is covered with straw for protection. In reality, however, under the straw the pit is full of water, instead of grain. This saying appears in an Akkadian document from Mari on the Euphrates River in what is now Syria. It dates from 2,000 years BCE (Römer 1971:21–2, #80). Two Kurdish sources from the Soviet period define the expression Ava bin kaê as follows: trickster, bastard, devil; untrustworthy, unreliable; traitor, deceitful, treacherous (Khamoian 1979:30 A-20; Dzhalilov & Dzhalilov 1972:71, #180). In Zaza: Awa bindê simerî [=Water under the straw] The Neo-Aramaic Assyrians of the region of Urmia (Iran) say: Miye [t]xut tuyna ‫ܡܝܐ ܬܚܘܬ ܬܒܢܐ‬ [=Water under the straw]

Shared Ownership and Kurdish Folklore 

 9

The amazing antiquity of this saying, which has not changed its form over 5,000 years and is still in use in the same region, makes one wonder if it is even older than the Kurds and the Assyrians. In Persian the expression is: ‫آب ریر کاه‬ āb-i zīr-i kāh ‫آب‬ ‫زیر‬ ‫كاه‬ [Water under straw] It is used in speaking of someone who has committed a dishonest act, but wants to be seen as innocent (Korogly 1973:75, no. 21). There is a Turkish expression: Saman altından su yürütmek [=Under the straw to cause water to flow] According to Aksoy, this expression is used to describe people who make trouble for others, while hiding their own guilt (Aksoy 1981:866, no. 6736). In Zaza there are idioms that resemble this Turkish one: Simerî bin ra awe beno [=He takes water under the straw, i.e., He does things secretly] and also: Awe simerî bin ra nêvejeno [=He doesn’t bring the water from under the straw, said of someone who purposefully declines to solve a problem] In Arabic, particularly in the Syro-Palestinian dialects, there is a similar expression: “mithil il-ḥayyeh taḥt it-tibin” ‫ =[ مثل الحیة تحت التبن‬Like a snake under the straw] (Feghali 1938:724, no. 3020). The Arabic word for snake, ḥayyeh ‫حیة‬, rhymes with the word for water, mayyeh ‫میة‬. In other words, instead of the expected word mayyeh ‘water’, in Arabic we have ḥayyeh ‘snake’. 4. K’î zane – zane, k’î nizane – baqê nîskane [Who knows, knows who doesn’t know – a handful of lentils] (Dzhalilov 1972:385, #18; also Lescot 1940–42:v.1, 223–224, #262; Sabar 1978:221, #12). This proverb exists in Kurmanji, Arabic and Neo-Aramaic; I have found no trace of it in Turkish or Persian. Arabic versions have been collected from Iraq to Libya (see for example: Bazargan 1983:107, #73; Feghali 1938:164, #786; Panetta 1941:271[23], #12). Barakat describes the way the proverb is used in Arabic (Barakat 1980:26–28, #7). In Iraqi Arabic the proverb appears this way:

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 Michael L. Chyet

Il-yidrī yidrī wil-ma yidrī ga∂bit ‘adas ‫الیدري یدري والما یدري گضبة (قبضة) عدس‬ [The one that knows knows, and the one that doesn’t know – handful of lentils] Likewise, in Lebanon the proverb looks like this: Il-byidrī byidrī, wil-mā byidrī bīqūl kaff ‘adas ‫ والما بیدري بیقول كف عدس‬،‫البیدري بیدري‬ [The one that knows knows, and the one that doesn’t know says handful of lentils] (Feghali 1938:164, no. 786) Here is the story behind this proverb: A married woman has relations with a strange man in a field of lentils. Her husband wants to kill the offending stranger, but the latter cries out, saying “He wants to kill me for stealing a handful of lentils!” (Sabar 1978:221, #12). In some versions, the offense is murder rather than adultery. In either case, the Arabs tell a similar story regarding the proverb. Barakat describes it in this way: “One may use the proverb to those who think you are angry for some trivial reason but, in reality, the reason is much more serious” (Barakat 1980:27). That more serious matter is often taboo. Kurds, Arabs, and Kurdish Jews use this proverb (Segal 1955:262, #65). In the Neo-Aramaic of the Jews of Kurdistan (Zakho), the proverb takes this form: Aw dkī’e kī’e aw dlá kī’e gmēnüx bi-ṭlōxe [He that-knows knows; he that doesn’t know looks at lentils] (Segal 1955:262, #65) According to Sabar, the Jews of Zakho also quoted this proverb in Kurmanji, rather than in Neo-Aramaic (Sabar 1978:221, #12). Moreover, there is another version of this proverb, which occurs both in Behdini (Kurmanji of Iraq) and in Neo-Aramaic: Behdini (Kurmanji of Akrê region): Yê dizanît dizanît, yê nizanît serê xo dihejînît [The one who knows knows, the one who doesn’t know shakes his head] (Thanks to the late Khalaf Zebari, collected in c. 1999) Neo-Aramaic: awat kī’e kī’e, awad la kī’e rēşē gişayiş [He who knows knows, he who doesn’t know, shakes his head] (Rivlin 1945:208–209, #2)

Shared Ownership and Kurdish Folklore 

 11

The Kurds and Neo-Aramaic speaking Jews and Christians have lived side by side for centuries, and here we see that both neighboring languages even share two versions of a proverb. This is a clear indication of a shared tradition. 5. There are many proverbs which exist in both Kurmanji and Sorani. The next proverb exists in Kurmanji, Sorani, and Persian: Kurmanji: a. Ban ‘eynî ban e / Alîyek deşt e / Yek zozan e [The roof is the same roof / One side is a plain / One is a mountain pasture] (Thanks to Hemid Kılıçaslan, of Qiziltepe, Mardin, May 2000) Another version: b. Ban hemû ban e, ma aliyek deşt e yek zozan e) [The roof is all one roof, but one side is a plain and one is a mountain pasture] (Tepe 2002:19–20) Sorani: a. Banêke w dû hewa ‫بانێکه و دوو هه وا‬ (Dzhalilov 1972:374, no. 2) b. Banek u dû hewaye ‫بانه ك و دوو ههوایه‬ [One roof and two climates (weathers) it is] (Reşaş 2010:29, no. 1) Persian: Yakbām va dū havā, īn sar-i bām garmā, ān sar-i bām sarmā ‫ این سر بام گارما آن سر بام سرما‬،‫یکبام و دو هوا‬ [One roof and two climates, this side of the roof is warm, that side of the roof is cold] (Korogly 1973:489, no. 178) The story behind the proverb is this: A mother married off her daughter, and brought a bride for her son. In the summer, the daughter and son-in-law come for a visit, and they all sleep on the roof. The mother gets up, and goes and wakes up her son and daughter-in-law, saying, “It’s warm, you shouldn’t sleep so close to each other.” Then she goes over to her daughter and son-in-law and wakes them up, saying “It’s cold, you should snuggle up closer to each other.” This infuriates the son, who says to his meddlesome mother, “It’s all one roof, but apparently one side is hot [a plain] and the other side is cold [a mountain pasture].” The proverb is used in conveying the idea of double standards in the treatment of people.

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 Michael L. Chyet

6. Here is another proverb which exists in both Kurmanji and Sorani: Kurmanji: Nizanî rihetîya canî [Ignorance, ease of the soul] (Lescot 1940–42:1, p. 224, no. 266) Sorani: Nazanim – rēḧetî giyanim ‫نازانم – ڕەحه تی گیانم‬ [I don’t know – ease of my soul] (Dzhalilov 1978, p. 353, no. 2053) This proverb, which brings to mind the English adage “Ignorance is bliss”, seems to be unique to Kurdish. I have not found parallels in the neighboring languages. 7. While living in the Arab village of Kafr Qari in Israel 1980–1982, I learned that when one comes to visit while there is food on the table, one is told that “Your mother-in-law loves you”, which means that you are lucky; the guest is invited to come and eat with those already seated. When I returned to the US and began my folklore studies at the University of California, Berkeley with Allen Dundes, I began collecting items for a folklore project. To my surprise, I discovered that this same expression exists throughout the Middle East, in Kurmanji, Sorani, Neo-Aramaic, Arabic, Turkish, Persian. I have reason to believe that it is also known in Greek, Armenian and Judeo-Spanish: Kurmanji: Xesîya te ji te p’ir̄ ḧez dike (Informant from Diyadîn, Ağrı, 1988) Behdini (Southern Kurmanji): Xesîya te tu divêy = ‫خهسییا ته تو دڤێی‬ (Informant from Berwari tribe near Dihok, 1993) Sorani: Xesût xoşît eyewê = ‫خهسووت خۆشیت ئه یهوێ‬ (Informant from Kerkûk, 1984) Neo-Aramaic: Xma:tox jbaya:lox ‫ܚܡܬܟ ܓܒܥܝܐܠܟ‬ (Thanks to Linda Shwat, Berkeley, 1983)

Shared Ownership and Kurdish Folklore 

 13

Palestinian Arabic: Ḥamātak bitḥibbak ‫حماتك بتحبك‬ (Thanks to the citizens of Kafr Qari, Israel, 1981) Turkish: Kaynanan seni çok seviyormuş (Informant from Kırıkkale, Turkey, 1988) Persian: Mādarzanat dūstat dāšt ‫مادرزنت دوستت داشت‬ (Korogly, 272, #1442) In addition, if one shows up for a visit just after the table was cleared, one is told “Your mother-in-law doesn’t love you”: in other words, one is out of luck. As item #5 above (One roof and two climates) shows us, relations with one’s mother-in-law can be difficult; hence, you are fortunate if she is fond of you, and unfortunate if she isn’t. 8. Our last saying occurs in all the languages of Kurdistan, including Neo-Aramaic, as well as Turkish, Armenian, Persian and Iraqi Arabic. When something that we have been hoping for actually comes to pass (e.g., we get that acceptance letter from the university or from that job that we applied for), the following congratulatory greeting is used, which corresponds to English “Congratulations”: Kurmanji: Çavê te ronî be [May your eye be bright] Zaza: Çimê to roşnî bê [May your eyes be bright] Sorani: Çawit rōşin ‫چاوت ڕۆشن‬ [Your eye bright] Neo-Aramaic: ‘Aynox bara:ne ‫ܥܝܢܟ ܒܪܐܢܝ‬ [Your eye bright]

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 Michael L. Chyet

Turkish: Gözün aydın [Your eye bright] Armenian: Ač’k’t luys Աչքդ լոյս [Your eye light] Persian: Čašmat rōšan ‫چشمت روشن‬ [Your eye bright] Iraqi Arabic: Gurrat ‘aynak ‫قرة عینك‬ [Coolness (=delight) of your eye] The idea seems to be that one’s eyes brighten up at the sound of good news. Here is a list of the eight Kurdish sayings discussed: 1) Derbazbûyî be 2) Çi heye, çi t’une? 3) Ava bin kaê 4) Kî zane zane – kî nizane, baqê nîskane 5) Ban ‘eynî ban e, alîyek deşt e, yek zozan e 6) Nizanî rihetîya canî 7) Xesîya te ji te p’ir̄ ḧez dike 8) Çavê te ronî be The first two expressions are rejected by some Kurmanji speakers, who see them as unwelcome examples of Turkish influence. However, Sorani speakers, who commonly use expression #2, are less prone to consider it as a foreign implant. The other six sayings, many of which qualify as proverbs due to the metaphors in them, are quite well entrenched in Kurdistan in particular, and in the Middle East in general (with the exception of #6). There is a general tendency to claim that if a given expression exists in one’s language, it originated with that people. Nonetheless, some Kurds today are increasingly concerned about foreign – particularly Turkish – borrowings, which runs counter to the concept of shared ownership. For expressions not viewed as intrusions, such as items 3–8 in this article, the fact that many of them are shared by the Kurds and their neighbors does not detract from

Shared Ownership and Kurdish Folklore 

 15

their value as part of Kurdish heritage and Kurdish world view. Rather like baklava: regardless of who invented it, everyone enjoys it.

Bibliography Aksoy, Ömer Asım. 1981 Deyimler Sözlüğü (Dictionary of Expressions), Atasözleri ve deyimler sözlüğü, 2. Ankara [?]: Türk Dil Kurumu. Bakaev, Ch.Kh. 1977 Rol´ IAzykovykh Kontaktov v Razvitii IAzyka Kurdov SSSR. Moskva: Nauka. Barakat, Robert A. 1980 A Contextual Study of Arabic Proverbs. Folklore Fellows Communications, vol. 226. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Tiedeakatemia. Bazargan, Rif‘ah Ra’uf 1983 Amthāl sha‘bīyah lahā ḥikayāt = ‫أمثل شعبیة لها حكایات‬. Baghdād: Maṭba‘at al-Irshād. Bruinessen, Martin van 1983 Kurdish Tribes and the State of Iran: the Case of Simko’s Revolt. In: The Conflict of Tribe and State in Iran and Afghanistan, ed. Richard Tapper. London & Canberra: Croom Helm; New York: St. Martin’s Press, p. 364–400. 1992 Agha, Shaikh and State: on the Social and Political Organization of Kurdistan. London: Zed Books. Bynon, Theodora. 1979 The Ergative Construction in Kurdish. Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 42:211–224. Chyet, Michael L. 1995 A Preliminary List of Aramaic Loanwords in Kurdish. In Humanism, Culture, and Language in the Near East: Studies in Honor of George Krotkoff. ed. Asma Afsaruddin and A.H. Mathias Zahniser. Dzhalilov, Ordikhane & Dzhalil Dzhalilov 1972 Mesele û Met’elokê K’urda bi Zimanê K’urdî û Rûsî = Kurdskie Poslovitsy I Pogovorki na Kurdskom i Russkom IAzykakh. Moskva: Glavnaia redaktsiia vostochnoĭ literatury. 1978 Zargotina K’urda = Kurdskiĭ Fol’klor. Moskva : Nauka, 2 vols. Erdost, Muzaffer İlhan 1987 Şemdinli Röportajı. İstanbul: Onur. Feghali, Michel. 1938 Proverbes et dictions Syro-Libanais. Paris: Institut d’Ethnologie. Garbell, Irene. 1965 The Impact of Kurdish and Turkish on the Jewish Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Persian Azerbaijan and the Adjoining Regions. JAOS 85:159–177. Hassanpour, Amir. 1992 Nationalism and Language in Kurdistan, 1918–1985. San Francisco: Mellen Research University Press. Hejar. 1968 Le mer̄ jîyan u beserhatî Hejar bwêjî Kurd. In: Kurdskiĭ Dialekt Mukri, by K.R. Eĭiubi & I.A. Smirnova. Leningrad: Nauka, p.142–185. Hetzron, Robert. 1969 The Morphology of the Verb in Modern Syriac (Christian Colloquial of Urmi). JAOS 89:112–127. Heyd, Uriel 1954 Language Reform in Modern Turkey. Jerusalem: The Israel Oriental Society. Hoberman, Robert 1988 The History of the Modern Aramaic Pronouns and Pronominal Suffixes. JAOS 108: 557–575. 1989 The Syntax and Semantics of Verb Morphology in Modern Aramaic: A Jewish Dialect of Iraqi Kurdistan. New Haven: American Oriental Society. Hopkins, Simon. 1989 Neo-Aramaic Dialects and the Formation of the Preterite. Journal of Semitic Studies, 34:413–432. Jaba, Auguste & Ferdinand Justi. 1879 Dictionnaire Kurde-Français. St.-Pétersbourg: Eggers et Cie.

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Jastrow, Otto. 1973 Daragözü: eine arabische Mundart der Kozluk-Sasongruppe (Südostanatolien). Nürnberg: H. Carl. 1985 Laut- und Formenlehre des neuaramäischen Dialekts von Mīdin im Ṭūr ‘Abdīn. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz. 1988 Der neuaramäische Dialekt von Hertevin {Provinz Siirt}. Wiesbaden : Otto Harrassowitz. Joseph, John. 1961 The Nestorians and their Muslim Neighbors. Princeton : Princeton University Press. Khamoian, M. U. 1979 Kurdsko-Russkiĭ Frazeologicheskiĭ Slovar´: soderzhit okolo 8000 frazeologicheskikh stateĭ. Erevan: Izdatel´stvo AN Armianskoĭ SSR. Korogly, Kh. 1973 Persidskie poslovitsy, pogovorki i krylatye slova (Persian Proverbs, Sayings and Winged Words). Moskva: Glavnaia redaktsiia vostochnoĭ literatury. Krotkoff, George. 1982 A Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Kurdistan: Texts, Grammar, and Vocabulary. New Haven: American Oriental Society. 1985 Studies in Neo-Aramaic Lexicology. In: Biblical and Related Studies Presented to Samuel Iwry. Winona Lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns. p. 123–134. Kutscher, E.Y. 1969 Two ‘Passive’ Constructions in Aramaic in the Light of Persian. In: Proceedings of the International Conference on Semitic Studies (1965: Jerusalem). Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities; [distributed by E.J. Brill], p. 132–151. Leopold, Werner F. 1939–50 Speech Development of a Bilingual Child: a Linguist’s Record. Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University, 4 vols. 1948 The Study of Child Language and Infant Bilingualism. Word 4:1–17. 1972 Bibliography of Child Language, rev. & augmented by Dan Isaac Slobin. Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press. Lescot, Roger. 1940–42 Textes Kurdes. Paris: Paul Geuthner. 2 vols. MacKenzie, D.N. 1961 Kurdish Dialect Studies I. London et al.: Oxford University Press. [Reprint: London: SOAS, 1981]. 1962 Kurdish Dialect Studies II. London et al.: Oxford University Press. Mann, Oskar. 1906 Die Mundart der Mukri-Kurden. Kurdisch-Persische Forschungen, 4. Berlin: Georg Reimer. 2 vols. Noel, Edward. 1920 The Character of the Kurds as Illustrated by their Proverbs and Popular Sayings. BSOAS 1/iv: 79–90. Panetta, E. 1941 Proverbi, modi di dire e indovinelli arabi di Bengasi. Rivista degli Studi Orientali, 11:248–281. Peeva, Adela. 2003 Whose is this song? = Chiia e tazi pesen? = Bu şarkı kimin? Sofia: Adela Media. Polotsky, H.J. 1979 Verbs with Two Objects in Modern Syriac (Urmi). Israel Oriental Studies 9:204–227. Prym, Eugen & Albert Socin. 1890 Kurdische Sammlungen, Zweite Abteilung: Erzählungen und Lieder im Dialekte von Bohtan; a. Die Texte; b. Übersetzung. St.-Pétersbourg : Eggers et Cie. Reşaş, Ḧemîd. 2010 Pendî Kurdî. Hewlêr: Le Biławkirawekanî Ekadîmyay Kurdî. Ritter, Hellmut. 1968–69 Kurmānci-Texte aus dem Ṭūr‘abdîn: 1. Kärboran. Oriens, 21–22:1–135. 1969 Ṭūrōyo: die Volkssprache der syrischen Christen des Ṭūr ‘Abdîn. Beirut; Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag. 3 vols. 1976 KurmÅnci-Texte aus dem Ṭūr‘abdîn: 2. Yeziden. Oriens, 25–26:1–37. Rivlin, Yosef Yoel. 1945 Pitgamim bi-leshon Targum. Reshumot, ser. 2, 1:207–215. Römer, Willem H. Ph. 1971 Frauenbriefe über Religion, Politik und Privatleben in Mari: Untersuchungen zu G. Dossin, Archives Royales de Mari X (Paris 1967), Alter Orient und Altes Testament, Bd. 12. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Verlag Butzon & Bercker Kevelaer; Neukirchener Verlag des Erziehungsvereins.

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Rudenko, M. B. 1986 Literaturnaia i Fol’klornye Versii Kurdskoĭ Poemy “IUsuf i Zelikha”. Moskva: Nauka. Sabar, Yona. 1978 Multilingual Proverbs in the Neo-Aramaic Speech of the Jews of Zakho, Iraqi Kurdistan. International Journal of Middle East Studies 9:215–235. 1982 The Folk Literature of the Kurdistani Jews: an Anthology. New Haven & London: Yale University Press. Segal, J. B. 1955 Neo-Aramaic Proverbs of the Jews of Zakho. Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 14:251–270. Socin, Albert. 1882 Die Neu-Aramaeischen Dialekte von Urmia bis Mosul: Texte und Übersetzung. Tübingen: H. Laupp. Tepe, Îshak. 2002 Apê Kal: guldesteyek ji zargotina Kurdî. Istanbul: Weşanên Perî. Weinreich, Uriel. 1968 Languages in Contact: Findings and Problems. Paris & The Hague: Mouton.

Özlem Belçim Galip

Resist Diyarbakır, Resist: Exploring Kurdish Literary Intelligentsia in Diyarbakır Abstract: Much has been written about Diyarbakır, and its political ramifications and impact on Kurdish civilians in the region; however, it is still necessary to study the cultural and literary endeavours of Kurdish writers based in Diyarbakır (Diyarbakır) and their contribution to Kurdish language and literature in the form of a specific strategy of resistance to official cultural constructs that suppress Kurdish identity. In fact, in the case of Kurdish identity, “aesthetics and politics are intertwined” because of “ever-present repression and blockage of life [. . .] the dispossession of an entire nation”.1 Specifically, the political resistance in Diyarbakır has progressed to denote the essence of what can be classified as literary resistance. In this context, the existence of a series of linguistic and literary mechanisms and strategies to counteract the inexorable pressure exerted by the politically powerful on both individual and society in Turkish Kurdistan contributed to the emergence of a Kurdish literary elite which included and includes linguists, poets, writers, publishers, and translators—based in Diyarbakir. Diren ha Diyarbekir Diren (Resist Diyarbakır, Resist) is one of the most evocative Kurdish national songs, heard mostly at street protests and demonstrations across Turkey. It addresses the Kurdish national movement under the auspices of the resistance of Diyarbakır. The song repeats Diren ha Diyarbekir diren (Resist Diyarbakır, resist), Direnmektir sana can veren (Resistance is your existence).

Introductory Remarks After the State of Emergency (OHAL) was lifted in 2002, and despite continuing restrictions on freedom, the Kurdish literary scene expanded around a growing number of writers, readers, and publishers in Diyarbakır who shared a strong sense of resistance to the years of prohibition and oppression against the Kurdish language. They expressed this resistance through Kurdish literature. Many Kurdish language publications returned to their homeland from their previous European locations in diaspora. The cities of Turkish Kurdistan, especially Diyarbakır, became centres of Kurdish literature and publishing as Kurdish youth was becoming

1 Edward Said, Culture and Imperialism (London: Vintage Books, 1993), 164. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110634686-003

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enthused to write fiction; likewise, the number of those who could read Kurdish, mostly self-taught due to the lack of national education in Turkey, increased exponentially. The establishment of art and literary institutions and  initiatives (e.g., Diyarbakır Art Center, Diyarbakır Sanat Merkezi), the striking rise of publications of prose and poetry in Kurdish, the increasing number of publishing houses, and publication of far more Kurdish journals and magazines has resulted in the birth of a group which can be described as the ‘Diyarbakır literary école’, with widespread influence on young authors and readers. The members of this literary école collaborate closely through various cultural and literary institutions and groups at local, national, and international level, holding literary workshops, panels, meetings and book launches, not only to contribute to the development of Kurdish literature, but also to display their resistance to the atrocities of the 1990s and to address the unresolved Kurdish Questions that beg explanations: persecutions, killings and disappearances, censorship in media, and even the closure of many media and cultural outlets and civil organizations. The Kurds involved, including this literary école, were either children or teenagers in the 1990s when political and military repression was at its peak. Many of them were forced to settle in Diyarbakır due to imposed expulsions and village evacuations by Turkish military forces. Relative to the dominant discourse, their texts and narratives can be overall considered as “counter-discursive rather than homologous practices”.2 This literary intelligentsia has emerged and implemented various strategies and methods in reaction to banned Kurdish national and cultural identity, particularly the decades-long ban on the Kurdish language and has utilized Kurdish literature to symbolize an essential “arena of struggle”3 in order to rescue Kurds from cultural hegemony and domination of the Turkish state. The courageous and passionate stance of this committed group of intelligentsias, who put Kurdish language and literature above fear for their own lives, is inspired by the symbolic resilient identity of Diyarbakır, and through their literary efforts, they give voice to the Kurds all over Turkish Kurdistan and its diaspora, regardless of changes in political atmosphere. The dialectical connection between the space (Diyarbakır) and the individual is so strong that it has, to a great extent, fuelled resistance within the literary scene.

2 Helen Tiffin, “Post-colonial Literatures and Counter-Discourse,” Kunapipi 9, no. 3 (1987): 18. 3 Barbara Harlow, Resistance Literature (London: Routledge, 1996), 34.

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The City of Diyarbakır: Kurdish Cultural and Literary Capital Diyarbakır (from Diyar Bakr, abode of the tribe of Bakr, or Amida, its ancient name) has been an important political, cultural, and commercial centre since ancient times. It was the provincial capital of Northern Jazira (Upper Mesopotamia) and capital for many empires including Hittites, Sumerians, and Assyrians.4 The name ‘Diyarbakır’ was conceived as a Turkification of the spurious ‘Diyarbekir’ by the Türk Dili Kurumu (Turkish Language Institution) in 1937; however, ‘Amed’ is commonly used by Kurds. One of the largest Kurdish cities, and considered the capital of Greater Kurdistan by some, it is a site of contention in terms of socio-political and cultural aspects of Kurdish identity and has been home to many clashes between Kurds and the Turkish government.5 Gaining its cosmopolitan character and intellectual spirit as early as the nineteenth century, along with its diverse communities (Armenians, Jews, Assyrians, Syriacs), Diyarbakır emerges as a key stage, and as an emblematic paradigm,6 for Kurds from the early twentieth century particularly due to the Sheikh Said Uprising (1866–1925) which was a turning point in Kurdish nationalism; and spread widely from Diyarbakır to other Kurdish towns and provinces in 1925. To suppress the uprising and prevent others from following suit, the Turkish state enacted a series of policies. Martial law was declared in the Kurdistan region, and on 4 March 1925 the Ankara government announced a Law on the Maintenance of Order (Takrir-i Sükûn Kanunu), which restrained freedom of the press and suppressed any sort of opposition to the state by enforcing various policies. The dispersal of the Kurdish population to Turkish Western provinces, the closure of medreses (which were of 4 For more on ancient Diyarbakır, see M. van Berchem, J. Strzygowski and G. Bell, Amida (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1910); on Diyarbakır in the Ottoman Empire, see J. Jongerden and J. Verheij (eds.), Social Relations in Ottoman Diyarbekir 1870–1915 (Brill: Leiden, 2012); A. Taşğın, Osmanlı’dan Cumhuriyet’e kadar [Diyarbakır from the Ottoman Empire to The Republic] (Turkish Culture Research Institute, 2008) XIX. Yüzyılın İlk Yarısında Diyarbakır (1790–1840) [Diyarbakır in the First Half of the XIX Century (1790–1840)] (TTK: 2014). See also Diyarbakır’s Memory run by Diyarbakır Association for the Protection of Cultural and Natural Assets in collaboration with Anadolu Culture, which gathers documents, maps, photographs and visual and audio materials regarding the city’s history, culture and architecture. Available at: https://diyarbakirhafizasi.org. 5 Although maps encompassing the regions of Greater Kurdistan have a common core area, borders are inconsistent. There are different versions of the map of Greater Kurdistan: that proposed by Sharif Pasha for the Treaty of Versailles (1919), or the one proposed by the Rizgarî Party to the United Nations (1945). For more on this topic, see Maria T. O’Shea, “Kurdistan: The Mapping of a Myth,” in Kurdistan: Political and Economic Potential (London: Geopolitics and International Boundaries Research Centre, School of Oriental and African Studies, 1992). 6 Zeynep Gambetti, “The Conflictual (Trans)formation of the Public Sphere in Urban Space: The Case of Diyarbakır,” New Perspectives on Turkey 32 (2005): 43–47.

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utmost importance for the development of Kurdish language and literature),7 the imposition of Turkish as the language of pedagogy, the promotion of Turkish cultural homogeneity, and bans on any word related to ‘Kurd’ were among the policies created as part of the ‘Turkification’ process pursued by the Turkish state since its establishment.8 Forced migration, which occurred as a result of village evacuations and destruction in Turkish Kurdistan in the early 1990s, due to the warfare between PKK (Kurdistan Workers’ Party, Partiya Karkarên Kurdistan) and the Turkish state, caused a shift of population to the cities for many displaced Kurds in the region, mainly Diyarbakır.9 In this context, Diyarbakır experienced intensive urbanization and consequent political mobilization, which has led to it becoming an intensely concentrated mecca of discourse for Kurdish nationalism and a center for the Kurdish national movement in Turkey.10 As such, due to its heavily intricate networking and diversity Diyarbakır is not merely a place but a symbol.11 For the last three decades, Diyarbakır has been transformed by local operators or, more broadly, by the liberation movement organized around the pro-Kurdish parties.12 The rise of mayors elected from pro-Kurdish parties, along with the presence of activists and volunteers, NGOs, and the civil society have played a pivotal role in constructing the pathway towards it being a cultural centre. These have led to “(de)nationalizing from Turkishness and (re)nationalizing Kurdification attrib7 During the Empire, the medreses, which were centrally administered organizations, played a significant role both in Kurds’ life and their relationship with the state. Those educated at medreses could have a place in the Ottoman government as kadi (judges), müftü (jurisconsults) or mudarris (teachers). Classical Kurdish poets such as Meleyê Ehmedê Cizirî (Malaye Jaziri, 1570–1640), the writer of divan (collection of poems), and Ehmedê Xanî (Ahmad-I Khani, 1650–1707), the author of Mem û Zîn (Mem and Zin), a romance based on the Kurdish national epic Memê Alan, taught at Kurdish medreses. 8 Ozlem Belcim Galip, Imagining Kurdistan (London: I.B. Tauris, 2015). 9 For more on forced migration, see Ayse Seda Yüksel, “Rescaled Localities and Redefined Class Relations: Neoliberal Experience in Southeast Turkey,” Journal of Balkan and Near Eastern Studies 13, no. 4 (2011): 442–443; Deniz Yükseker “Exclusion: Problems Encountered by Internally Displaced Persons in the Provinces of Istanbul and Diyarbakır,” in Coming to Terms with Forced Migration: Post-Displacement Restitution of Citizenship Rights in Turkey, edited by Josee Lavoie (İstanbul: TESEV, 2006): 256–276; Zeynep Gambetti and Joost Jongerden (eds.), Kurdish Issue in Turkey: A Spatial Perspective (Abingdon: Routledge, 2019); Joost Jongerden, The Settlement Issue in Turkey and the Kurds: An Analysis of Spatial Policies (Leiden: Brill Academic, 2007). 10 Muna Güvenc, “Constructing Narratives of Kurdish Nationalism in the Urban Space of Diyarbakır, Turkey,” Traditional Dwellings and Settlements Review 23 no. 1 (2011): 26. 11 For more on the representation and symbolization of Diyarbakır as a city in Turkish and Kurdish literature, see Francesco Marilungo’s unpublished thesis, “Shaping Diyarbakır through Words” (University of Exeter, 2018). 12 Ayse Seda Yüksel, “Rescaled Localities and Redefined Class Relations: Neoliberal Experience in Southeast Turkey,” Journal of Balkan and Near Eastern Studies 13 no. 4 (2011): 442–443.

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utes of urban space”.13 These factors have aided in enabling the citizens to practice, and reinvent, their cultural and linguistic identity. For instance, Osman Baydemir, as mayor of Diyarbakır Metropolitan Municipality, and Abdullah Demirbaş, a pro-Kurdish BDP (Peace and Democracy Party, now HDP) mayor of the Sur District, began to provide multilingual municipality services in 2007. Demirbaş’s multilingual municipal services for the local public had under its rubric the publication of children’s storybooks in Armenian, Kurdish, and Assyrian.14 The political and social interaction between civil society and pro-Kurdish political parties in the urban space of Diyarbakır has contributed to the invention of a new Kurdish identity, not only in political, but also in cultural form. Along with political activism and resistance, the distinctive characteristic of Diyarbakır is that cultural activities such as Kurdish music performances, exhibitions, book launches, bookfairs, literary meetings, and panels, facilitated by a network of activists, artists, writers, and pro-Kurdish party members is institutionalized through everyday practices in public life. Such initiatives led rural and village communities to adopt similar forms. For instance, the Mesopotamian Foundation (Weqfa Mezopotamyayê), established by businessmen, academics, and linguistic and human rights advocates in Diyarbakır, has initiated a wide range of activities around the Kurdish language such as helping to standardize Kurmanji (Kurdish Kurmancî) dialect, publishing Kurdish grammar and dictionaries, and linguistic and cultural journals, and opening a Kurdish library. Again, a cultural project on the Kurdish Dengbêj (bardic) tradition initiated by Diyarbakır Municipality and Dicle Firat Culture and Art Center (Dicle Fırat Kültür Sanat Merkezi), aiming to protect Kurdish oral production, founded the Dengbêj House in 2007, where local artists and poets could meet and perform.15 Dicle Firat Culture and Art Center, Cegerxwin Cultural Center (namesake of a Kurdish poet), and the Ayse Şan Park (namesake of the beloved singer Ayse Şan), both through their names, and the events they have organized, have produced counter-narratives to those of the state: they do so by their emphasis on Kurdish artistic and literary expression of everyday practices in an urban space. The opening of the largest Kurdish library, Dara Weşanê (Tree of

13 Güvenc, Constructing, 20. 14 Both Baydemir and Demirbaş were put on trial many times for providing services in languages other than Turkish. 15 ‘Dengbêj’ is normally used in Turkish Kurdistan and Bahdinan region. Dengbêj repertories include songs, legends and poems, as most of the population is illiterate and much of Kurdish folk literature is still unwritten. A performer similar to dengbêj is also given names such as ‘stranbêj’, ‘shair’, and ‘aşık’ in different regions. For more on the project, see Clémence Scalbert-Yücel, “The Invention of a Tradition: Diyarbakır’s Dengbêj Project,” European Journal of Turkish Studies 10 (2009): 56–82.

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Publication), was an essential milestone in making Kurdish literary books accessible to the public. The owner of the library, Yusuf Serdar Esen, wants this project to make Diyarbakır a major destination for book lovers and publishers to meet and exchange ideas and experiences.16

Kurdish Journals and Publishing Houses: The Shift from Diaspora to Kurdistan Prohibitions imposed by the Turkish Republic have greatly hindered the presence and growth of Kurdish literature in Turkish Kurdistan. In 1924, Kurdish schools, religious foundations, and publications were banned. Musa Anter’s poetry anthology Kimil (Aelia, 1962) and his play Birîna Reş (Black Wound, 1965), and Mehmed Emin Bozarslan’s short story compilation Meyro (Meyro, 1979) are among the few Kurdish works published between the 1960s and 1980s. After the 1980 military coup, restrictions were even more fiercely enforced. Under military rule, the 1982 Constitution reverted to banning the Kurdish language and Kurdish publications. Now impossible in Turkey, writers and publishers moved to European countries. Along with a wide range of Kurdish journals, grammar books, and children’s books, exiled Kurdish intellectuals with a political background published research on Kurdish epics and Kurdish books of fiction, mainly in Germany and Sweden. However, in 1991 Prime Minister Turgut Özal (1989–1993) repealed the language laws, so books and newspapers were again being published in Kurdish in the early 1990s. But after Özal’s unexpected death, the Turkish state once again made it almost impossible for a novel to be published in Turkish Kurdistan. Îhsan Colemergî wrote Cembelî Kurê Mîrê Hekarî (Cembelî, Son of the Mir of Hakkari) in 1992 but could finally publish it in Sweden in 1995, while Îbrahîm Seydo Aydogan’s Reş û Spî (Black and White), published in Istanbul by Doz in 1999, is the only novel published in 1990s in Turkey. However, with the dominance of the AKP (Justice and Development Party) in the Turkish parliament following the 2002 elections language policies were reformed, due mainly to Turkey’s negotiations for its feverishly sought-after inclusion into the European Union. Since then there has been a striking increase in the proportion of Kurdish writers in diaspora who now prefer to have their works published in Turkish Kurdistan (mainly by the Lîs and Avesta publishing houses), where an emergent literary circle has gone from strength to

16 Interview with Esen, Diyarbakır, 2019.

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strength.17 Accordingly, Kurdish author Mîran Janbar says “no one would prefer to drink water from a land far away while there [in front of you] is the fountain itself from which you can drink.”18 Local institutions and initiatives played a significant role in bringing back Kurdish publishing from Europe to Diyarbakır. The government’s 2009 ‘Kurdish Initiative’ (Kürt Açılımı, also called ‘Kurdish Opening’), part of the Democratic Initiative Process, partially opened the path for allowing the use of the Kurdish language in public spaces. A new regulation concerning radio and television broadcasts that contained different languages and dialects was put into practice as regards the Turkish national broadcasting channel (TRT, Türkiye Radyo ve Televizyon Kurumu); however, this did not prove sufficient in entirely abolishing the process of linguicide. Because current Turkish language policy places constraints on human rights regarding education and language, Kurdish linguistic rights remain restricted in the public sphere—as well as in the private one. Despite the restrictions and censorships, the Istanbul and Diyarbakır Kurdish Institute, the Dicle Fırat Culture and Art Center, the annual bookfair in Diyarbakır, the Institute of Living Languages at Mardin Artuklu University (Mardin), and the launch of the Kurdish Language and Literature departments at Dicle (Diyarbakır) Bingöl and Muş universities have provided new opportunities for Kurdish writing and publications since the beginning of the millennium. The said universities also enabled students to write academic articles in Kurdish with peer review being a part of the publication process, which was not the case before. Folklor û Ziman (Folklore and Language), initiated by the Mesopotamia Foundation and based in Diyarbakır, is one academic journal with such a process.19 Mesopotamia Foundation coordinator Mikail Bülbül20 states that it was due to these Kurdish departments that Kurdish

17 Avesta was the first and is still the largest publisher in Turkey set up explicitly to publish in Kurdish. It was set on fire by a group of people in 2016, leading to the loss of thousands of books. 18 Interview with Janbar, Diyarbakır, 2020. 19 The Mesopotamia Foundation (Mezopotamya Vakfı in Turkish, Weqfa Mezopotamyayê in Kurdish) including businessmen, academics, and lawyers, strived to open a university offering education in Kurdish from 2011 and even made an official application in 2015 with no success. The foundation has its own publishing house, and published several works on Kurdish language and folklore arising from having organized a number of workshops and fieldwork on folklore. The outcomes of the fieldwork have been published as a series, see https://www.mezopotamyapirtuk.com/ 20 Former lecturer in Kurdish grammar at Mardin Artuklu University, who was dismissed from this post due to having signed the Academics for Peace petition. This 2016 petition showed support for Kurdish prisoners’ demands for peace made through a hunger strike, denouncing military operations against Kurds, and calling for a peaceful resolution to Turkey’s four decades-old conflict with PKK guerrillas. 1,128 staff from 90 Turkish universities signed the petition and hundreds of them either lost their jobs or faced trial for doing so.

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publishing houses made a profit for the first time through selling books written in Kurdish. Accordingly, as Diyarbakır-born linguist and author, Mehmet Tayfun (pseudonym Malmîsanij), notes, “in 2000 more than 40 Kurdish publishing houses were established in Turkey”.21

The Significance of Journals and Periodicals Journals and periodicals have been as important as books for the development of Kurdish language and literature. For instance, the first Kurdish periodical, Kurdistan (1898–1902), constituted was a significant attempt to develop Kurdish in written form. With its appearance, interest in prose writing increased. The late nineteenth century and first half of the twentieth century gave rise to many Kurdish journals and periodicals through the initiatives of Kurdish intelligentsia, leading to the development and publication of Kurdish prose. Political organizations were quite important in disseminating Kurdish literary works at the beginning of the twentieth century. The purpose of such journals and periodicals was to improve Kurdish language and literature, and to publish Kurdish classics, as well as to promote Kurdish history and Kurdishness.22 These journals and newspapers were published in Kurdish and Ottoman Turkish.23 Further periodicals such as Hawar (Cry, 1935–43), Ronahî (Light, 1941–46, published in Damascus, Syria]), and Roja Nû (New Day, 1943–46, published in Beirut), were all initiative taken by the Bedir Khan brothers. Kamuran Bedir Khan (d. 1978) and Süreyya Bedir Khan (d. 1938), engaged heavily with Kurdish culture and identity, contributing to the development of Kurdish literature. Nûdem 21 M. Malmîsanij, The Past and Present of Book Publishing in Kurdish Language in Turkey (2006): 26: https://www.npage.org/IMG/pdf/Turkey.pdf. Avesta, Aram, Lîs, Nûbihar and Vate are the primary publishing houses for Kurdish literature, translation and classics, with Avesta and Lîs leading the field in every genre. Additionally, the following publishing houses, based either in Istanbul or Diyarbakır, have published a great deal, though some are no longer active: Alan, Apec, Amara, Ar, Arya, Ava, Azad, Banga Heq, Bajar, Belkî, Berbang, Berçem, Berfîn, Beroj, Beybûn, Bîr, Çetin, Çira, Dilop, Dîlan, Dîwan, Do, Elma, Fam, Fırat, Hêlîn, Hêvî, Hîva, Hîvda, J&J, Koral, Lorya, Melsa, Mem, Mîr, Müjde, Nûdem, Nûjen, Öz-Ge, Pelêsor, Peywend, Şîmal, Ronahî, Roşna, Rûpel, Sî, Sîpan, Tevn, Veng, War, Welat, Weşanên Dîsa, Weşanên Evrensel, Zehra û Zîbeq. 22 Organizations included Kürdistan Azm-i Kavi Cemiyeti (Society for a Strong Kurdistan); Kürd Teavun ve Terakki Cemiyeti (Kurdish Society for Cooperation and Progress); Kürd Talebe Hêvî Cemiyeti (Kurdish Hope Student Organization); Kürd Tamim-i Maarif Cemiyeti (Organization to Spread Kurdish Publishing and Sciences); and Kürdistan Teali Cemiyeti (Society for the Advancement of Kurdistan). 23 Kürdistan (Kurdistan), Kürt Teavün ve Terakki Gazetesi (Kurdish Solidarity and Progress Newspaper), Rojî Kurd (Kurdish Day), Hetawî Kurd (Kurdish Sun) and Jîn (Life), all of which gave much space to Kurdish literature.

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(New Time) was published in Kurmanji, in Sweden, from 1992 to 2002 through the efforts of Kurdish writer Firat Cewerî, and played a significant role in heightening awareness for—and implementing means by which—Kurdish literature can grow and flourish. In the early 1990s, Istanbul became a site for Kurdish intellectuals and publications, with establishment of publishing houses such as Doz (1990), Kurdish Institute Publications (1992), Nûbihar (1992), Avesta (1995), Pêrî (1997), and Aram (1998). However, after the State of Emergency (OHAL) was lifted, the cities of Kurdistan, especially Diyarbakır, became the center for such activities. Literary journals sprang up, such as the bimonthly, bilingual (Turkish and Kurdish) Tîroj (Beam of Light), launched in 2003, the bimonthly W, launched in 2004, Çirûsk (Flash) quarterly, launched in 2007, and Şewçila (Night Lamp), launched in 2011, as a trimonthly in the Zazaki dialect of Kurdish. Alongside these literary journals, there are two children’s periodicals, Şemamok and Dergûş. There are also two journals of criticism and theory, Wêje û Rexne (Literature and Critique) and Zarema, both launched in 2014 and appearing quarterly: they both include literary reviews, analytical writing, and critical and theoretical articles. These journals, published under predominantly oppressive conditions, and in the shadow of war, opened the door for contemporary Kurdish literature to emerge and progress.24 Many of the authors who started in those journals have now become well-known luminaries as authors and poets, with publications bearing their names today.25

Kurdish Literary Intelligentsia in Diyarbakır There is a flourishing Kurdish publishing industry based in Istanbul, but the Diyarbakır intelligentsia plays a particularly prominent role in developing Kurdish lit-

24 Dawid Yesilmen, “Kurdish Journals and Magazines”. http://www.kurdilit.net/?page_id=2501& lang=en. 25 For more on Kurdish literature see Mehmed Uzun, Despêka Edebiyata Kurdî (An Introduction to Kurdish Literature, 2005 [1992]) and Antolojiya Edebiyata Kurdî I-II (The Anthology of Kurdish Literature, 1995); a short presentation by Lal Laleş on ‘Kürt Edebiyatı’ (Kurdish Literature, 2009); a book by Feqî Hüseyin Sagnıc (who is mainly known for his work on the Kurdish language), Dîroka Wêjeya Kurdî (The History of Kurdish History, 2002); and Qanate Kurdo’s Tarîxa Edebiyata Kurdî II (The History of Kurdish Literature, 1983) – all provide historical background to the development of Kurdish literature, in both Sorani and Kurmanji dialect, from classical Kurdish poetry to modern Kurdish literature. Leila Naderi, An Anthology of Modern Kurdish Literature (Erbil: University of Kurdistan Publishing House, 2011); Joyce Blau, “Kurdish Written Literature,” in Kurdish Culture and Identity, eds. Phillip G. Kreyenbroek and Christine Allison (London: Zed Books, 1996).

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erature, notably in the Kurmanji dialect. Diyarbakır has produced thousands of novels, essays, translations of foreign literature, nonfiction, and children’s books. The biggest Kurdish publishing house in Diyarbakır, Lîs (founded in 2004), plays a crucial role in contributing to the progress of the Diyarbakır literary scene. Since its establishment, Lîs has aimed to develop a dialogue between world languages and Kurdish, forging a bridge between writers globally and Kurdish writers. In 2007, it published the basic works of Kurdish literature, originally written in different countries and scripts, in new editions, and using the Latin script. The first nineteen books in the series, entitled the Ahmad-i Khani Library, have reached a wide audience in Kurdistan, and in diaspora.26 Lîs Editions have also always prioritized publishing the work of young writers in order to clear the way for the development of contemporary Kurdish literature. Similarly, it began to publish children’s books in the series Lîs Zarok (Lîs Children), in order to help children become proficient in reading their mother tongue. Several literary activities and events involving a great range of writers, poets, publishers, and translators have taken place with the collaboration of Lîs and Diyarbakır Art Center (founded in 2002) through the initiative of Anadolu Culture (Anadolu Kültür) of Istanbul, aiming to contribute to the revitalization of culture and the arts in Diyarbakır, and to create a space for artists and writers to meet the public through a number of organizations. Events include exhibitions, book launches, literary meetings, seminars, theatre performances, and film screenings: all amounting to a pervasive and everyday form of resistance.27 A four-week literature and music program entitled ‘Looking at World Literature and Grand Masters from Amed’, organized by Lîs and Diyarbakır Art Center, in cooperation with Sülüklü Han, took place between 22 April and 13 May 2012 in order to demonstrate the cultural dynamism of Diyarbakır, as well as the practices with which it contributes to world literature. This program also included a masters’ colloquium on the classics of world literature.800 participants had the opportunity to have these authors’ books translated into Kurdish for free. Lîs and Diyarbakır Art Center also organized, over a two-month period, a series of events entitled ‘Comparative Literature Days in Diyarbakır’, in 2013 and 2018. A third such event, involving contributions by the Goethe Institute, Swedish Consulate General, Holland Consulate General, and French Cultural Centre took place online due to the restrictions of Covid pandemic, between 30 October, and 7 November 2020.

26 However, Lîs Publishing House owner, Lal Laleş, claims that the rise of Kurdish literature and rapidly increasing number of Kurdish writers does not indicate a rise in the use of Kurdish in daily life. 27 For more see Scott, Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Resistance, 1985.

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The Kurdish Writers Association, established in 2004 in Diyarbakır, and based in an old house in the historic Sur district, together with the Free Journalists Society, has contributed to the dynamism of the literary intelligentsia through various events and meetings. In addition, the Kurdish Literature and Publishing Network (KurdîLit), established in 2016, with the collaboration of Lîs and Literature Across Frontiers (UK), and funded by the EU’s ‘Creative Europe’ program, aims to promote the visibility of literature produced in Kurmanjî and Kurmanjkî, not only in Turkey, but also in the wider region and the international arena. As such it is making contemporary Kurdish literature part of a larger communications network.28 The annual Amed Bookfair has included an impressive range of panels on literature, supported by Diyarbakır municipality and Kurdish publishing houses based in Turkey and Turkish Kurdistan. Again, through the initiative of Lîs, Wejegeh Amed (Literature House Amed) literary centre was founded in 2019 and is crucial in organizing many literary events.29 The Rewşen group, whose most prominent members included Lal Laleş, Yaqop Tilermenî, Kawa Nemir, and Rênas Jîyan, takes its name from the journal Rewşen (Brightness, 1992–95), which was renamed Jiyana Rewşen (Bright Life, 1996–2000), and has significantly contributed to the literary achievements in Diyarbakır. Each member has either established a publishing house, or has launched literary journals. Almost everyone in this group has published at least one Kurdish book of fiction. Another group, Zimanperwer, was established in Diyarbakır in 2009. The members (e.g., Ahmet Kanî, Edib Polat, etc.) study Kurdish (Kurmanji dialect), hold regular meetings, and publish their research on language. By the early 2000s, writing fiction in Kurdish became quite common among the younger generation of Kurds in Diyarbakır, who were mostly involved in some sort of literary occupation; some studied literature as undergraduates, others were editors at publishing houses: occupations which made them aware of changes in the contemporary literary landscape, whereby affording them a prudent reflection on the socio-politics of Turkish Kurdistan, as is reflected in their writings. What stands out, however, is that these young literary intellectuals explore topics that are more diverse than their older predecessors, in a political sense. They have also adopted a more aesthetically contemporary form. As Sexmus Sefer, a Kurdish poet who has been living in Diyarbakır since 2002, argues, “even writing in Kurdish 28 Literature Across Frontiers (LAF) is a European platform for literary exchange, translation and policy debate. 29 Almost all the writers mentioned in this chapter and most possibly others contributed to development of Kurdish terminology with new forms of use and new words. For instance, Lal Laleş invented the term Wejêgeh (‘Wejê’ means ‘literature’ in Kurdish and ‘geh’ refers to ‘place’), and nowadays it is widely used by Kurds, even in other cities, in place of the pre-existing Mala Wejêye.

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itself is already [a] political act regardless of the subject-matter”.30 The engagement of Kurdish authors in Diyarbakır, not only with literary and non-literary genres, but also with the roles they take throughout the publication of Kurdish texts, constantly changes. For instance, they tend to publish in both prose and poetry, be involved in editing and other editorial occupations in publishing houses, work as journalists for Kurdish newspapers, journals, and varied media: they may even shift between these occupations. Berken Bereh, Arjen Arî (d. 2012), Dost Çiyayî (d. 2003), Welat Dilken, and Rênas Jiyan, Mihemed Ronahî, Elîxan Loran, Nûdem Hezex, Jîr Jan Amedî Meral Varışlı, Feratê Dengizî, Mem Bawer, Sexmus Sefer, Aydın Alp, Sexmus Sefer, and Sîdar Jîr are significant literary figures representing contemporary Kurmanji poetry and have contributed extensively to literary networking. Rênas Jiyan, especially popular among university students for his post-modernist approach to Kurdish poetry, published dozens of poetry books in the late 1990s. In line with the socio-political circumstances, Kurdish literature has also witnessed major literary changes. While poetry is considered the most advanced mode of expression in Kurdish literature, there has been a growing interest in prose writing in the last decade, reflecting the increasing interest in producing literary works.31 Lokman Ayabe, Şener Özmen, Edip Polat, Yunus Eroğlu (pseudonym Ciwanmerd Kulek), Yaqop Tilermenî, Ronî War, Tahir Taninha, Hasip Yanlıç, Hogir Berbir, Gulgeş Deryaspî, Arîn Zîn, Sîdar Jîr, Omer Dilsoz, Roza Metîna, CihanYıldırım, Amed Çeko Jiyan, Lorîn Dogan, and Mîran Janbar are some of the leading young authors based in Diyarbakır—producing short stories and novels. Roşan Lezgîn writes short stories in, both Zazaki, and Kurmanji dialects. Alongside the poets and authors, there is a noticeable rise in the number of Kurdish literary critics; Ayhan Geverî, Remezan Alan, Azad Zal, Mehmet Öncü, Omer Faruk Baran, Umran Aran, Mikail Bülbül, and Kawa Nemir have published several literary articles and critiques in Kurdish journals. Hundreds of literary intellectuals based in Diyarbakır are not originally from there and have moved there to be part of this vivacious intellectual milieu: “capital of Kurdish literature” (Sefer 2020).32 Likewise, Kurds from different cities, particularly Istanbul, visit

30 Interview with Sexmus Sefer, Diyarbakır, 2020. 31 Interview with Lal Laleş, Diyarbakır, 2020. 32 Interview with Sefer, 2020. For instance, see Firat Cewerî, Ez ê Yekî Bikûjim [I Will Kill Someone] (Istanbul: Avesta, 2008), Adil Zozanî, Mişêxti [Exile] (Diyarbakır: Lis Publishing, 2009), Ibrahim Seydo Aydoğan, Reş û Spî [Black and White] (Istanbul: Doz Publishing, 1999).

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Diyarbakır to participate in cultural and literary events, and these writers have a strong relationship with the Kurdish Writers’ Association there.33

Sense of Diyarbakır: The Relationship Between Space and Identity in the Narratives “Place makes memories cohere in complex ways. People’s experiences of the urban landscape intertwine the sense of place and the politics of space,” writes architectural historian  Dolores Hayden.34 In this sense, it is important to conceptualize place-identity as a specific component (sub-identity) of self-identity. There are physical dimensions and characteristics that help define identity, and are subsumed by it. Place-identity is defined as “those dimensions of self that define the individual’s personal identity in relation to the physical environment by means of a complex pattern of conscious and unconscious ideas, feelings, values, goals, preferences, skills, and behavioral tendencies relevant to a specific environment”.35 In this case, Kurdish writers, translators, and publishers based in Diyarbakır have adjusted themselves in accord with Diyarbakır’s spatial dynamics, its cultural implications, and its social and political reality. They do so by daily and close engagement with one another—and the public. Identity and place are so tightly bound that physical resistance in Diyarbakır has, symptomatically, not only become part of Kurdish national identity, but the literary intelligentsia of Diyarbakır has instituted itself, and progressed over the years, to counter fixed and institutionalized forms of power and domination, with the Kurdish language as a modality of resistance. Along with the political subjects that they interweave with personal stories, they also directly counter the hegemony of the state in the daily life of Diyarbakır. For instance, one of the new-generation Kurdish writers, Murat Bayram, a journalist, and editor in the independent news agency Bianet’s Kurdish-language section, has released his first book of short stories, Belkî îşev binive (Maybe She Will Sleep Tonight 2018) in the form of literary journalism about the daily life in

33 For instance, Selamî Esen (poet) lives in Siirt, Qahir Bateyî (translator), Erol Şaybak (short story writer, pseudonym Bawer Ronahî), Gernas Roderîn (poet), Adil Başaran (short story writer) and Mahmûd Barik (author and folklorist) live in Mardin; Samî Hêzil (translator), Berham Mîrzo (poet) and Ikram Isler (folklorist) live in Van, Bawer Rûken (author) lives in Urfa, Feysel Ozdemir (poet and editor) and Nihat Ekinci (author and researcher) live in Batman. 34 Dolores Hayden, The Power of Place: Urban Landscapes as Public History (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997). 35 Harold M. Proshansky, “The City and Self-Identity,” Environment and Behavior 10, no. 2 (1978): 147–169.

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Diyarbakır, and by means of stories collected during the violent 2015–2016 clashes and curfews, thereby countering the official version. The success of the pro-Kurdish Peoples’ Democratic Party (HDP), which won 80 seats, and the governing party AKP’s (Justice and Development Party) lost majority in the 7 June 2015 general elections, was the main reason for the widespread operation in the region which followed, resulting in detentions, leading to protests, and the eventual declaration of curfews in several Kurdish cities which lasted for months. The clashes between Turkish security forces and Kurdish militants that Bayram describes in this book led to the curfews and the destruction of the ancient district of Sur in Diyarbakır. In 2015, just prior to the military escalation, the Diyarbakır Fortress and Hevsel Gardens Cultural Landscape became UNESCO World Heritage sites. This did not stop the destruction of Sur, as the area once again transformed into a war zone, as it had been during the 1990s atrocities.36 Resistance and loss have indelibly marked Kurdish literary intellectual identity, leading to literary and cultural productions to keep both the resistance and collective memory of the past alive through the narratives and testimonies of Kurdish writers, effectively de-centring the official version of Turkish history.37 The literature of Diyarbakır-based writers records past tragedy and bears witness to events, forging resistance to the assimilation of Turkish policies and the backlash against the Kurdish language. In an interview with Lal Laleş, the founder of Lîs, he compares Kurdish literature of the last decade with earlier work, and notes that, then, it was a vehicle to improve the Kurdish language and create awareness; however, young Kurdish authors of now see the language and Kurdish resistance as a subject of their narratives. The language has become a vehicle with which to denounce Turkey’s anti-Kurdish policies, whereas previously writing in Kurdish was just a way of sustaining the language for future generations.38 Alongside present-day developments, Diyarbakır is also associated, not only with historical resistance and a heroic past (the Sheikh Said uprising), but also with the infamous prison in which many Kurds have been confined, tortured, and killed. Diyarbakır Prison is particularly significant in terms of what it symbolizes in terms

36 After releasing a press statement about Turkish atrocities in the region which called attention to the damage done to historic buildings in the city, Tahir Elçi (1966–2015), a Kurdish lawyer and chairman of Diyarbakır Bar Association, was assassinated in the crowd in the Sur district of Diyarbakır on 28 November 2015. Thousands of people wanted to join his funeral, however due to the bans on political protests and riots, they could not. The murderer was not found, and the investigation stopped after the failed military coup on 15 July 2016. 37 As this chapter does not aim for a textual analysis of the texts, references are limited to book titles. 38 Interview with Laleş, Diyarbakır, 2020.

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of persecution and resistance. Many Kurdish and Turkish politicians, artists, journalists, and academics were put on trial and sent to Diyarbakır prison—during and after the 1980 military coup. Most had to leave their lands after the coup had rendered social and political conditions unbearable; many were incarcerated in the prison for years, and some, when released, had to flee to European countries as refugees. But the coup also led to intensification of struggle and resistance in Turkish Kurdistan. One of the founders of PKK, Mazlum Doğan, led the prison resistance on Newroz day 1982 by lighting three matches, putting them on the table in his cell and taking his life, with the message Surrender is Betrayal, Resistance brings Victory. In the aftermath, four inmates, Ferhat Kurtay, Eşref Anyık, Necmi Önen, and Mahmut Zengin set themselves on fire in protest. This resistance sparked substantial support, which continues today in the literary circles.39 In this context, the conditions and the subsequent resistance in the prison constitute a crucial aspect of memory through personal experiences of their malign, and yet inspiring influence. Diyarbakır Prison appears and reappears “at the level of the representation of the past through narrative, rhetorical devices, and images”40 in Kurdish literary narratives. This is because the retrieval of the past, and its memory, is necessary in gaining the strength needed for the current resistance as the ongoing socio-political conflicts, and persecution that Kurds in Turkish Kurdistan persists still. The politicization of memory distinguishes nostalgia from the type of memory that serves to illuminate and transform the present41and highlights the continuation of the resistance. Considering that “resistance is encoded in the practices of remembering and of writing”,42 Kurdish literature’s powerful, yet poignant, strategy seems to be to turn real incidents, statistics, and numbers of known victims into fiction. By focusing on individuals within larger and more public conflicts involving political oppression and injustice, authors create an “archive, which would contribute to their constitutions”.43 They explore different forms of injustice, loss,

39 Kurdish refugees in European diaspora, many of them literary elite imprisoned for political reasons in Diyarbakır Prison in Turkey after the 1980 military coup, play an important role in contributing to this legacy through their prison narratives. See Kurdish exiled authors such as Mehmed Uzun, Firat Cewerî, Lokman Polat, Medeni Ferho. For more about Diyarbakır prison, see Mehdi Zana, Prison No. 5: Eleven Years in Turkish Jails (Watertown, MA: Blue Crane Books, 2011); Bayram Bozyel, Diyarbakır 5 No’lu [Diyarbakır: The Number 5] (Iletisim Publishing, 2007); Mehmet Tanboga and Fevzi Yetkin, Dörtlerin Gecesi [The Evening of Quartet] (Aram Publishing, 2011). 40 Paul Ricoeur, Memory, History, Forgetting (Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 2006), 161. 41 bell hooks, Yearning: Race, Gender and Cultural Politics (London: Turnaround, 1991), 147. 42 Chandra T. Mohanty, “Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses,” in Third World Women and The Politics of Feminism, eds. Chandra T. Mohanty, Ann Russo and Lourdes Torres (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1991), 333–358. 43 Barbara Harlow, Resistance Literature (London: Routledge, 1996), 46.

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migration, and conflict, conflating the public and private realms and displaying the multifaceted links that firmly bind the two realms together. Kurdish contemporary fiction not only denounces the oppression, but it also highlights literary aesthetic approaches as a form of resistance. Political conditions in Turkish Kurdistan intruding on publications in Kurdish, or about Kurds, have also compelled the authors in Diyarbakır (and in other Kurdish cities) to formulate their discourse in an indirect and symbolic manner to combat censorship and prohibition, itself a form of resistance against the years of Turkish state injustice. They seek imaginative devices through which they are better able to narrate their stories. Often in fictional settings and characters, or by use of journals and letters throughout the narration, they can drive their message home discreetly.44 By breathing real life into fictional characters, Kurdish literature turns the anonymous into individualized and personal case studies, mixing the private and the public, not only recording oppression, but also denouncing it by wielding ridicule and satire. The topics on which Kurdish writers embark transform—and surpass—boundaries between specific literary genres, at times displaying a “switch from realism to surrealism”,45 with modernist techniques apparent in both content and form. Nevertheless, the political issues inevitably arise. As the publisher Laleş rightly argues, “even if a Kurdish writer wants to stay away from political topics, it is impossible to ignore what is happening around him or her in the city you live in, love and care about which is being destroyed each day”.46 From 2015 to 2016 many civilians fighting to save Diyarbakır were killed, including some who were studying Kurdish literature at the universities.47 Any lingering hopes that Turkish president Recep Tayyip Erdoğan would return to the path of democracy have faded now. Instead, he has solidified his power to push his political agenda, especially since the failed military coup in July 2016, which severely affected the cultural and literary atmosphere throughout Turkey, particularly in the Kurdish region.48 Apart from the political clashes, arrests, and 44 For example, Yunus Eroğlu, Otobês [The Bus] (2010); Şener Özmen, Rojnivîska Spinoza [The Diary of Spinoza] (2008); Mîran Janbar, Ardûda [Arduda] (2004); Îrfan Amîda, Pêşengeha Sûretan [Exhibition of Faces] (2011). 45 Interview with Sefer, 2020. 46 Interview with Laleş, 2020. 47 For Dutch journalist Frederike Geerdink’s interview with Nemir, see https://ahvalnews.com/turkey/kurdish-translator-kawa-nemir-vows-keep-kurdish-publishing-going-amsterdam; Kawa Nemir (2019), Kurdish translator and publisher, states that he knew some of those who fought for the city, they would come to his home library where he helped them with translations and edited their work. He mentions that maybe one of them could have been a great poet but died. 48 The political turmoil and intimidation dictated by the AKP government, particularly after July 2016, has determined the action repertoire of civil society. For instance, 370 NGOs and civil society

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prohibitions, the current AKP government has also been discouraging projects that promote cultural diversity, criticize prevailing norms in Turkish society, or question Turkish taboos. After the failed coup and during the subsequent two-year state of emergency a number of Kurdish publishing houses were shut down and the books published by these publishers were banned.49 Both Kurdi-Der (The Kurdish Language Research and Development Association) and Kurdish Writers’ Association in Diyarbakır were closed by a Turkish government executive order. Bookshops removed Kurdish-language book and also those embarking on Kurdish-themed topics from their shelves. Online bookstores also deleted books from their websites. Diyarbakır Bookfair, which was first held in 2010, and was one of the main cultural events and literary gatherings in Turkish Kurdistan, was suspended as part of the repression from 2015 to 2018. Several Kurdish writers and poets were detained on unknown charges: Rênas Jiyan (poet), Murat Özyaşar (author), Fahriye Adsay (publisher). Kurdish language is closely linked to the question of Kurdish national and cultural identity;50 indeed, even banners and posters in Kurdish have come to be seen as a threat by the Turkish government, although they are still legal. For instance, in 2014, posters and banners for the Amed Bookfair were printed in English, Kurdish, and Turkish, but from 2018 they appeared only in Turkish, causing resentment among the Kurdish public, and criticism in local media. Some Kurdish publishing houses even withdrew their stands and boycotted the fair. Additionally, students attend-

organizations working on children’s rights, women’s rights and poverty, as well as lawyers’ associations, were shut down by the Turkish authorities on 11 November 2016 under Article 11 of the State of Emergency (OHAL), with claims of their linkage with terrorist organizations. 49 Apart from the crackdown on the Kurdish literary circle, Kurdish municipal signboards, park and street names were removed, the first Kurdish children’s channel (Zarok TV) from the national satellite network was cancelled, the Kurdish theatre group in Batman and a nursery providing education in Kurdish in Van were shut down following the failed coup in 2016. Özgür Gün TV and Azadi TV, which broadcast in Diyarbakır in Kurdish and Turkish, and Jiyan TV, the only service in the Zazaki dialect, were closed by Executive Order of Turkey. The Diyarbakır Metropolitan Municipality City Theater, which has made important contributions to Kurdish theater by putting on Kurdish-language plays, was not closed after the declaration of a state of emergency. However, when a trustee was appointed to the municipality, all its employees were fired, and it was de facto closed down. The Amed Art Gallery, which has hosted over 150 exhibitions, closed its doors after a trustee was appointed to Diyarbakır Metropolitan Municipality. 50 Ralph W. Fasold, “The Politics of Language,” in An Introduction to Language and Linguistics, eds. Ralph W. Fasold and Jeff Connor- Linton (Cambridge, 2006), 377; Philip Kreyenbroek, “On Kurdish Language,” in The Kurds: A Contemporary Overview, eds. Philip Kreyenbroek and Stefan Sperl (London, 1992), 1; Abbas Vali, “Genealogies of the Kurds: Constructions of Nation and National Identity in Kurdish Historical Writing,” in Essays on the Origins of Kurdish Nationalism, ed. Abbas Vali (Costa Mesa, CA, 2003), 100; David McDowall, A Modern History of the Kurds (London: I. B. Tauris, 2004), 9.

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ing Kurdish Language and Literature departments at Turkish universities (Mardin Artuklu, Dicle, Bingöl, and Muş universities) are no longer allowed to write their dissertations in Kurdish. This was decided by a July 2020 decision by the Council of Higher Education (YÖK), which received scathing criticism from intellectuals and activists, and even led to the abandonment of the departments by their students in protest.

Concluding Remarks Diyarbakır, as an emblematic city for the Kurds in Turkey, and the principal urban face of their conflict with the Turkish state, has become the hub for Kurdish literary intelligentsia through institutional and individual endeavours during the last two decades. Turkish state hostility to Kurdish socio-political and cultural identity returned after a few liberal years in the 2000s. General political resistance in Diyarbakır has paralleled the resistance amongst the literary circle, which has continued to expand regardless of oppression and restrictions imposed by the state. Even in the oppressive post-2015 context, the literary intellectuals still have strong bonds with Diyarbakır. In a way, the military occupations, dispossession, lived past experiences, and ongoing political atrocities have fuelled the passion for writing and publishing in Kurdish more than ever. The literary activism of the Diyarbakır intelligentsia has created linguistic resistance within civil society. For instance, when the bookfair was launched in 2018, it received thousands of visitors, mostly from the younger generation, who were interested in Kurdish publications and defending the Kurdish language as an instrument for resistance against bans, “paving the way for those who want to learn Kurdish”, says Kurdish linguist Bahoz Baron.51 Accordingly, Mîran Janbar, an author who is based in Diyarbakır, and is known as the first Kurdish science fiction writer, observed that despite all these pressures from the government in Ankara, with local municipal leaders being removed from office and replaced with trustees by the Ministry of Interior, “the number of Kurdish readers has not decreased”.52 He goes on to assert that “however, due to the bans and restrictions, the interactions between the authors and readers are limited, with only books right now whereas before they could meet at literary

51 “7th annual Diyarbakır Book Fair includes books by 22 Kurdish authors,” Kurdistan 24, September 9, 2019, https://www.kurdistan24.net/en/story/20833-VIDEO:-7th-annual-Diyarbakir-Book-Fairincludes-books-by-22-Kurdish-authors. 52 Interview with Janbar, Diyarbakır, 2020.

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events where they could exchange ideas. But that’s it”.53 It is true that most literary events no longer take place at the institutional level, but literary engagements continue through individual endeavours. Bülbül underlines that since he lost his post as a Kurdish lecturer at the university, he has had more time to work on his Kurdish publications.54 Similarly, Mihemed Ronahî, poet and novelist, born and still living in Diyarbakır, who also owns a Kurdish publishing house named Ronahî, notes that the number of Kurdish publications has not decreased and the old enthusiasm for, and achievements in, literary production have never ceased.55 Repression and the economic crisis in Turkey have left the publishing houses in a conundrum, reducing the number of titles published. However, in 2019, despite the uncongenial political atmosphere, 26 Kurdish publishing houses published 252 Kurdish books. Most of the authors are young (in their 20s and 30s), showing the generational shift. Also, one third of the poets are women, another changing aspect of the Kurdish literary scene. The Kurdish literary intelligentsia’s distinct experiences and consciousness, involving a fusion of voices and unique literary styles, are characterized by strong oppositional and resistance-based themes which attempt to undermine Turkish state control, both spatially, and culturally in Diyarbakır, and in the broader Kurdish communities in Turkey. At this stage, on the one hand, Diyarbakır’s literary intelligentsia invites Kurdish readers to enter their literary and intellectual realm, exploring Kurdish linguistic, political, and cultural trauma, wherein the personal and the public overlap. On the other hand, in terms of engaging with the Kurdish literary scene, simply reading in Kurdish itself is, for a Kurd, one of the biggest individual revolutions.56 It looks likely that until the Kurdish issue in Turkey is sustainably resolved, the Kurdish literary intelligentsia will continue to disrupt the hegemonic narratives and linguistic/cultural dominance through their texts and actions as an important strategy of resistance. The readers, as participants in such actions, will complement this resistance, making each of them more than an audience, but another link in the strong chain forged by the said intelligentsia.

53 Interview with Janbar, Diyarbakır, 2020. 54 Interview with Bülbül, Diyarbakır, 2020. 55 Interview with Ronahi, Diyarbakır, 2019. 56 Interview with Janbar, Diyarbakır, 2020.

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Bibliography Altman, Irwin and Setha M. Low. Place Attachment. New York: Springer, 1992. Fasold, W. Ralph. “The Politics of Language.” In An Introduction to Language and Linguistics, edited by W. Ralph Fasold and Jeff Connor-Linton, 373–400. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Galip, Özlem B. Imagining Kurdistan: Identity, Culture and Society. London: I. B. Tauris, 2015. Gambetti, Zeynep. “The Conflictual (Trans)formation of the Public Sphere in Urban Space: The Case of Diyarbakir.” New Perspectives on Turkey 32 (2005): 43–71. Gambetti, Zeynep and Joost Jongerden (eds.). Kurdish Issue in Turkey: A Spatial Perspective. Abingdon: Routledge, 2019. Güvenc, Muna. “Constructing Narratives of Kurdish Nationalism in the Urban Space of Diyarbakir, Turkey.” Traditional Dwellings and Settlements Review 23, no. 1 (2011): 25–40. Harlow, Barbara. Resistance Literature. London: Routledge, 1996. Hayden, Dolores. The Power of Place: Urban Landscapes as Public History. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997. hooks, bell. Yearning: Race, Gender and Cultural Politics. London: Turnaround, 1991. Jongerden, Joost. The Settlement Issue in Turkey and the Kurds: An Analysis of Spatial Policies, Modernity and War. Leiden: Brill Academic, 2007. Kreyenbroek, Philip. “On Kurdish Language.” In The Kurds: A Contemporary Overview, edited by Philip Kreyenbroek and Stefan Sperl, 68–70. London: Routledge, 1992. Malmisanij. M. “The Past and the Present of Book Publishing in Kurdish Language in Turkey.” http://www. npage.org/IMG/pdf/Turkey.pdf (2006). McDowall, David. A Modern History of the Kurds. London: I. B. Tauris, 2004. Mohanty, Chandra T. “Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses.” In Third World Women and The Politics of Feminism, edited by Chandra T. Mohanty, Ann Russo and Lourdes Torres, 333–358. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1991. Proshansky, Harold M. “The City and Self-Identity.” Environment and Behavior 10, no. 2 (1978): 147–169. Ricoeur, Paul. Memory, History, Forgetting. Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 2006. Said, Edward. Culture and Imperialism. London: Vintage Books, 1993. Scott, James C. Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Resistance. New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1985. Tiffin, Helen. “Post-colonial Literatures and Counter-discourse.” Kunapipi 9, no.3 (1987): 17–34. Vali, Abbas. “Genealogies of the Kurds: Constructions of Nation and National Identity in Kurdish Historical Writing.” In Essays on the Origins of Kurdish Nationalism, edited by Abbas Vali. Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 2003. Yükseker, Deniz. “Internal Displacement and Social Exclusion: Problems Encountered by Internally Displaced Persons in the Provinces of İstanbul and Diyarbakır.” In Coming to Terms with Forced Migration: Post-Displacement Restitution of Citizenship Rights in Turkey, edited by Josee Lavoie, 256–276. İstanbul: TESEV, 2006. Yüksel, Ayse Seda. “Rescaled Localities and Redefined Class Relations: Neoliberal Experience in Southeast Turkey.” Journal of Balkan and Near Eastern Studies 13, no. 4 (2011): 442–443.

Sacha Alsancakli

Tales of Woe, Ruthless Foes, and Patriotic Heroes: A Historical-Literary Study of Kurdish (Dis)unity in the Early Modern Era Abstract: It is a common discursive trope that the Kurds are not united, a trope that one often encounters in discussions of contemporary events in Kurdistan. Little known is the fact that this trope goes back to the earliest times of Islam and has been associated with prejudices against the Kurds by neighbouring peoples, as well as efforts by dominant powers of the region to rule over them. Through the study of foundational texts like Idrīs Bidlīsī’s Selīmnāme, Sharaf Khān’s Sharafnāma, Ehmedê Xanî’s Mem û Zîn, and Feqiyê Teyran’s Şerê Dimdim, this article traces early modern discursive practices around ideas of Kurdish unity and disunity; and discusses their development in relation to imperial attempts at maintaining control over Kurdistan, on the one hand, while referencing a Kurdish ethos of bravery and righteousness, on the other. Under the rubric of Kurdish unity and disunity, one may expect to read about contemporary politics. Indeed, as the Kurds have, in the early 21st century, gained unprecedented momentum on the regional and global scene, the necessity for Kurdish political and military movements to present a united front in order to protect their hard-won gains and fend off the ever-present external threats facing them has become increasingly apparent to all sectors of Kurdish society.1 Yet, the very concept of “Kurdish (dis)

1 As a recent example, one can mention the declaration by the Platform of Kurdish Artists (Platforma Hunermendên Kurd), published on 28 August 2020, under the title: “Our enemies are united, let us also unite!” (Dijminên me bûne yek, werin em jî bibin yek!) See ANF, Navenda nûçeyan, “Hunermendan bang kirin: Dijmin bûye yek, werin em jî bibin yek”, ANF Kurdî, 28 August 2020, http:// anfkurdi.com/zanist/hunermendan-bang-kirin-dijmin-buye-yek-werin-em-ji-bibin-yek-131877 (last accessed on 17 November 2022). Note on transliteration: all proper names and place names follow the style guidelines of the Library of Congress for Persian, Ottoman Turkish, and Kurdish respectively. Persian transliteration is used for quotations in Persian, all of the place names, whether in Iran or the Ottoman Empire, and the names of Safavid and Kurdish amirs (e.g. Chāyān Sulṭān Ustājlū, Sharaf Khān). Ottoman Turkish transliteration is used for quotations in Turkish and the names of Ottoman sultans and governors (e.g. ‘Osmān; Köse Ḫüsrev Paşa). Kurdish transliteration (i.e., the Hawar alphabet) is used for quotations in Kurdish and the names of Kurdish authors (e.g. Feqiyê Teyran, Ehmedê Xanî). This system has been preferred to the use of a single transliteration system, which would have given rise to forms such as ‘Uthmān, Faqī-yi Tayrān, etc., seldom found in the literature. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110634686-004

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unity”, loaded, as it is, with nearly a millennium of discursive history, needs to be questioned in light of its connection with, on the one hand, the emergence of a specific Kurdish folk ethos, perceived as predominantly at odds with the moral values of the peoples neighbouring the Kurds, and, on the other hand, the widespread circulation of anti-Kurdish tropes among the governing elites of the regional states. This is made all the more important by the fact that these tropes were, in some cases, also appropriated by members of the Kurdish ruling class. From Idrīs Bidlīsī’s description of the Kurds as a “mountainous people, endowed with an innate striving for independence and internecine strife” (ahl-i jibāl-i majbūl bar istiqlāl-ārā va mukhālifat bā aqrān va akfā),2 to Sharaf Khān’s assertion that “the Kurdish tribes do not defer nor submit to one another, and have no unity among themselves” (ṭavāyif-i Akrād mutābi‘at va muṭāva‘at-i hamdīgar namīkunand va ittifāq nadārand),3 to Ehmedê Xanî’s claim that “if [the Kurds] could reach unity / And act in close solidarity / The Turks, Arabs, and Persians would, surely / become [their] servants entirely” (Ger dê hebuwa me ittifaqek / Vêkra bikira me jî wufaqek / Rom û ‘Ereb û ‘Ecem temamî / Hemiyan ji me ra dikir xulamî),4 references to Kurdish unity, or the lack thereof, are rather ubiquitous in the major texts penned by Kurds—and about the Kurds—in early modern times. Judging by these select quotations, it also seems that there was, in fact, a general agreement on Kurdish disunity on the part of these authors—whether they benefitted from it, like Idrīs Bidlīsī, merely observed it, like Sharaf Khān, or wistfully lamented it, like Ehmedê Xanî. Yet, were the early modern Kurds really this ever-warring, troublesome, and disorganised tribal mass conjured up by the perusal of these texts? Or did this prejudiced view, thought out from the outside and readily adopted by the Kurds themselves, in fact allow for the very materialisation of imperial policies favouring a lack of unity and, thus, a more efficient control of the Kurdish tribes and emirates? In order to answer these and other questions, we shall, in this essay, employ sources such as Idrīs Bidlīsī’s Selīm Shāhnāma, Sharaf Khān’s Sharafnāma, Feqiyê Teyran’s Şerê Dimdim, and Ehmedê Xanî’s Mem û Zîn, to try and define the concept of Kurdish (dis)unity through its diverse uses and interpretations, and attempt to determine how it functioned, on the one hand, as a rhetorical instrument of domination, and, on the other hand, as a written expression of revolt.

2 See Idrīs-i Bidlīsī, “Selim Şāh-nāme”, ed. Hicabi Kırlangıç (PhD dissertation, Ankara Üniversitesi, 1995), 209 (Persian text) and 236 (Turkish translation). All translations into English are the author’s unless indicated otherwise. 3 See Scheref, prince de Bidlis, Scheref-Nameh ou Histoire des Kourdes, ed. Vladimir Véliaminof-Zernof (Saint Petersburg: Académie impériale des Sciences, 1860–1862), I, 16. 4 See Ehmedê Xanî, Mem û Zîn, ed. Perwîz Cîhanî (Istanbul: Nûbihar, 2010), 220, bayts 231–232.

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Kurds in the Iranian Intermezzo and the First Encounters With the Turkmens: Kurdish ‘asabiyya in the Pre-Modern Muslim World, from the Caucasus to Egypt The matter of Kurdish unity is closely linked to the emergence and prolonged existence of an ethnic consciousness marked by bonds of solidarity among the Kurds. Although, in the first centuries of Islam, sources are sparse on this question, the term “Kurd” does appear in Arabic and Persian texts of the Abbasid period (r. 750–1258), notably during the so-called “Iranian intermezzo”,5 which saw the advent of a number of Kurdish dynasties like the Shaddādids (ca. 340–595/951–1199) and the Rawwādids (345–463/956–1071) in the Caucasus,6 the Marwānids (374–478/984–1085) in Jazīra and Mayyāfāriqīn,7 and the Ḥasanwayhids (349–405/960–1014) and the ‘Annāzids (ca. 381–511/991–1117) in the region of Kirmānshāh and Dīnawar.8 Beginning in the early 5th/11th century, however, the arrival of Turkmen tribes in Iran gradually chased the Kurds away from their “original lands”, possibly located in the regions of Shīrāz, Iṣfahān, and Hamadān, as a result of their appropriation of the latter’s traditional pasture grounds.9 This new competition resulted in a progressive westwards Kurdish migration towards Upper Mesopotamia,10 and planted the seeds of a Kurdish-Turkmen rivalry that would define the relations between the two groups for centuries to come.

5 A term coined by Vladimir Minorsky to refer to “the rise of a number of local Iranian dynasties, partly Daylamite and partly Kurdish, both in Azarbayjan and in the adjoining regions of Transcaucasia and Armenia”, in the 4th-5th/10th-11th centuries. See Vladimir Minorsky, Studies in Caucasian History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953), 110–116. 6 On the Shaddādids and Rawwādids, see Minorsky, Caucasian History. 7 On the Marwānids, see notably Ibn al-Azraq al-Fāriqī, Tārīkh Mayyāfāriqīn, ed. Karim Farouk el-Kholy and Yusuf Baluken (Istanbul: Nûbihar, 2014); also Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 19–20; and Henry F. Amedroz, “The Marwānid Dynasty at Mayyāfāriqīn in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries A.D.”, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 35/1 (1903): 123–154. 8 On the Ḥasanwayhids and ‘Annāzids, see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 20–23; also Claude Cahen, “Ḥasanwayh”, Encyclopædia of Islam, Second Edition, vol. 3 (1971): 258–259; Vladimir Minorsky, “‘Annāzids”, Encyclopædia of Islam, Second Edition, vol. 1 (1960): 512–513; and Kemal M. Aḥmad, “‘Annazids”, Encyclopædia Iranica, vol. 2, fasc. 1 (1987): 97–98. 9 See David Durand-Guédy, Iranian Elites and Turkish Rulers. A history of Iṣfahān in the Saljūq period (London: Routledge, 2010), 68–70, 90. 10 See Ismet Chériff Vanly, “Le déplacement du pays kurde vers l’ouest du Xe au XVe siècle, recherche historique et géographique”, Rivista degli studi orientali 50 (1976): 353–363; also Claude Cahen, “Contribution à l’histoire du Diyār Bakr au quatorzième siècle”, Journal Asiatique 243 (1955): 98.

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In the 6th/12th century, the rise of the Ayyubids (569–648/1174–1250) and their charismatic leader, Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn (r. 569–589/1174–1193), presents us with the first clear example of Kurdish solidarity and ethnic consciousness, as the Kurds played a prominent role in the Syro-Egyptian state’s army and administration.11 A century later, the Mamlūk (648–923/1250–1517) successors of the Ayyubids were, it seems, the first foreign rulers to try and capitalise on Kurdish ethnic solidarity for political gains, wishing to extend the margins of their empire by employing the Kurdish tribes of Upper Mesopotamia and Western Iran, the so-called Jibāl (“mountain”) or ‘Irāq-i ‘Ajam region,12 against their Mongol rivals, the Ilkhānids (654–736/1256–1335). To this effect, the Mamlūks created the position of muqaddam al-Akrād (commander of the Kurds), an officer whose task was to “gather the scattered [Kurdish] groups”, “unite the whole groups that have split”, and “ensure the disputes amongst them are laid to rest in order to [be able to] use their violence against the infidels”, so that “they shall cease oppressing each other and begin beating the heathen”.13 By creating this position which “attempted to reinforce and benefit from the Kurdish ‘aṣabiyya through the creation of a title denoting leadership over the community”,14

11 On Kurdish ethnic consciousness under the Ayyubids, see Boris James, Saladin et les Kurdes. Perception d’un groupe au temps des Croisades (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2006). 12 The Jibāl/Persian Iraq region included such cities as Hamadān, Qum, Iṣfahān, and Rayy, and was a main area of Kurdish settlement before the advent of the Saljūqs. See Clifford E. Bosworth, “ʿErāq-e ʿAjam(ī)”, Encyclopædia Iranica, vol. 8, fasc. 5 (1998): 538; Laurence Lockhart, “Djibāl”, Encyclopædia of Islam, Second Edition, vol. 2 (1965): 534; Guy Le Strange, The Lands of the Eastern Caliphate. Mesopotamia, Persia, and Central Asia from the Moslem conquest to the time of Timur (New York: Barnes and Noble, 1905), 185–231; also David N. MacKenzie, “The Origins of Kurdish”, Transactions of the Philological Society 60/1 (1961): 68–86; and Gernot L. Windfuhr, “Isoglosses. A Sketch on Persians and Parthians, Kurds and Medes”, in Monumentum H. S. Nyberg II, Acta Iranica 5 (1975): 457–472. 13 Aḥmad b. Faḍlallāh al-‘Umarī, Al-ta‘rīf bi al-muṣṭalaḥ al-sharīf, ed. Muḥammad Ḥusayn Shams al-Dīn (Beirut: Dār al-kutub al-‘ilmiyya, 1408/1988), 148–150; translated by Boris James, “Mamluk and Mongol peripheral politics: Asserting sovereignty in the Middle East’s ‘Kurdish zone’ (1260– 1330)”, in The Mongols’ Middle East. Continuity and transformation in Ilkhanid Iran, ed. Bruno De Nicola and Charles Melville (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 299–300. Al-‘Umarī also mentions the positions of muqaddam al-Turkmān, muqaddam al-jabaliyya, and amīr al-‘Arab (Al-Ta‘rīf, 147–148, 150–152). On this topic, see also Winslow W. Clifford, State formation and the structure of politics in Mamluk Syro-Egypt, 648–741 A.H./1250–1340 C.E. (Bonn: Bonn University Press, 2013), 90–96; and David Ayalon, “Aspects of the Mamluk phenomenon: Ayyubids, Kurds and Turks”, Der Islam 54 (1977): 1–32. 14 James, “Asserting sovereignty”, 300. Stemming from an “Arabic word meaning originally ‘spirit of kinship’ (. . .) in the family or tribe”, the notion of ‘asabiyya was conceptualised by the Maghribi scholar Ibn Khaldūn (d.  808/1406), for whom it represented “the force which impels groups or human beings to assert themselves, to struggle for primacy, to establish hegemonies, dynasties and empires”. See Francesco Gabrieli, “‘Asabiyya”, Encyclopædia of Islam, Second Edition, vol. 1 (1960): 681; also ‘Abd al-Raḥmān Ibn Khaldūn, Al-Muqaddima, ed. Abdesselam Cheddadi (Al-Dār al-Bayḍāʼ:

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the Mamlūks further posed, explicitly and for the first time, the question of unity among the Kurds. This period also saw the emergence of many of the myriad Kurdish principalities of Upper Mesopotamia and Northwestern Iran, a territory which would, from then on, be known in different sources, and with various, usually vague definitions, as the “land of the Kurds”, or “Kurdistan”.15 Although at least one of these emirates, that of Ḥiṣn-Kayfā, was an offshoot of the Ayyubid state,16 their origins are, for the most part, difficult to establish, shrouded as they are in a cloud of legend and folk history.17 The majority of these Kurdish-governed autonomous polities survived through to the 13th/19th century, and they are the territorial units which we will primarily be concerned with. Khizānat Ibn Khaldūn, Bayt al-funūn wa al-‘ulūm wa al-ādāb, 2005); ‘Abd al-Raḥmān Ibn Khaldūn, The Muqaddimah. An Introduction to History, transl. Franz Rosenthal (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1958), notably chapters 2 and 3. 15 The “land of the Kurds”, or “bilād al-Akrād”, is how this territory is usually called in Arabic sources, while it seems that the term “Kurdistān” was favoured by authors writing in Persian, which accounts for its later use in both Ottoman and Safavid texts. However, it is worth remembering that, especially in the Mamlūk-Ilkhānid period, these names did not necessarily refer to the same territories: thus, Ḥamdallāh Mustawfī Qazwīnī’s (d. 744/1344) description of the “lowlands of Kurdistan” (biqā’-i Kurdistān) includes the cities of Bahār, Dīnawar, Kirmānshāh, and Shahrazūr, all located east of the Zagros mountains, whereas the bilād al-Akrād primarily refers, in Arabic sources, to areas situated west of the Zagros range, regions that are considered by Mustawfī as belonging to the provinces of Armenia, Diyār Bakr, and Diyār Rabī‘a. See Ḥamdallāh Mustawfī Qazwīnī, Nuzhat al-qulūb, ed. Guy Le Strange (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1913), 100–109; Guy Le Strange, The Geographical Part of the Nuzhat al-Qulūb, composed by Ḥamd-allāh Mustawfī of Qazwīn in 740 (1340) (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1919), 100–107; also Boris James, “Le ‘territoire tribal des Kurdes’ et l’aire iraqienne (Xe-XIIIe siècles) : Esquisse des recompositions spatiales”, Revue des Mondes Musulmans et de la Méditerrannée 117–118 (2007): 101–126; Boris James, “Asserting sovereignty”, 296; Stephan Conermann, “Volk, Ethnie oder Stamm? Die Kurden aus Mamlûkischer Sicht”, in Asien und Afrika, vol. 8, Die Kurden, ed. Stephan Conermann and Geoffrey Haig (Berlin: EB-Verlag, 2004), 27–68; Baki Tezcan, “The development of the use of ‘Kurdistan’ as a geographical description and the incorporation of this region into the Ottoman Empire in the 16th century”, in The Great Ottoman-Turkish Civilization, vol. 3, ed. Kemal Çiçek (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 2000), 540–553; Metin Atmaca, “Change and Continuity in the Perception of the Kurdish Lands in European and Ottoman Sources”, The Journal of Mesopotamian Studies 3/1 (2018): 77–93; and Vanly, “Le déplacement du pays kurde”, 354–355. 16 See the Ta’rīkh bayt Ayyūb by al-Ḥasan b. Ibrāhīm al-Munshi’ al-Ḥiṣnī, an Arabic-language history of the maliks of Ḥiṣn-Kayfā, published as Al-Ḥasan b. Ibrāhīm al-Munshi’ al-Ḥiṣnī, Tārīkh Ḥiṣn-Kayfā, ed. Yusuf Baluken (Istanbul: Nûbihar, 2019), following on Claude Cahen’s earlier edition (see Cahen, “Contribution”). 17 See Sacha Alsancakli, “Warriors, Kings, and Caliphs. Questions of Origins and Dynastic Culture in Sixteenth and Seventeenth-Century Kurdistan”, in Families, Authority and the Transmission of Knowledge in the Early Modern Middle East, ed. Christoph Werner, Maria Szuppe, Nicolas Michel and Albrecht Fuess (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), 89–109.

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The most fundamental source for the early modern history of the Kurdish emirates is certainly the Sharafnāma by Sharaf Khān (d. 1009/1600), a book composed at the turn of the 11th/17th century by a man who was himself ruler of one of these emirates, the Diyādīnid/Rōzhikid principality of Bidlīs. As a chronicle of the greater and lesser Kurdish houses, the Sharafnāma represents a sort of political manifesto for the “amirs of Kurdistan” (ḥukkām/umarā’-i Akrād/Kurdistān), whose history the author dutifully recounts, describing the events of the 9th/15th and 10th/16th centuries in a rather detailed fashion. In his account of the Kurdish amirs’ conflictual relationship with the nomadic tribal confederations of the Qarāqūyunlū and Āqqūyunlū, which, throughout the period extending from the death of Tīmūr (d. 807/1405), to the rise of the Safavid Shāh Ismā‘īl (807–907/1405–1501), presented the Kurds with a serious existential threat, Sharaf Khān’s text notably suggests, in several tales and anecdotes, the existence of a form of Kurdish unity based on shared values and common mores in the face of the Turkmens, deemed to be an immoral and uncivilised foe.

Ethos and Ethnos in the Kurdish-Turkmen Conflict in the 15th Century: The Exemplary Story of Malik Shams al-Dīn Defined by Hans Roemer as a “Turkmen intermezzo”,18 the 9th/15th century was also marked by the strengthening of power of all the major Kurdish emirates of Upper Mesopotamia and Anatolia. Far from being mere “suffering witnesses (. . .) excluded from an active influence on events”,19 the amirs of the greater Kurdish houses, in fact, rose to prominence during that period, showing signs of a clear group consciousness based on the construction of a Kurdish ethnos and ethos meant to compete with that of the Turkmens. With their origins clouded in the mist of a post-Ayyubid world, divided between the Mamlūks to the West and the Ilkhāns to the East, it is mostly in the late 8th/14th century, a period corresponding to the advent of Tīmūr and his arrival in Kurdistan, that the semi-independent Kurdish emirates first made their way into the pages

18 Hans R. Roemer, “Das turkmenische Intermezzo. Persische Geschichte zwischen Mongolen und Safawiden”, Archäologische Mitteilungen aus Iran 9 (1976): 263–297. This is of course a reference to Minorsky’s “Iranian intermezzo”, alluded to earlier. 19 Roemer, “Das turkmenische Intermezzo”, 270.

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of our historical sources.20 Thus, Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn I, first historically attested amir of Bidlīs,21 is said to have met Tīmūr, probably in 789/1387, while the Ṣāḥib-Qirān was campaigning in the neighbouring provinces of Mūsh and Akhlāṭ.22 Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn’s son, Ḥājī Sharaf, also met Tīmūr in Bidlīs seven years later on 15 Rajab 796 (16 May 1394), an encounter described in detail in the Ẓafarnāma by the Persian chronicler Sharaf al-Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī.23 Following this visit, Ḥājī Sharaf was confirmed as ruler of Bidlīs, Mūsh, and Akhlāṭ by a Timurid imperial decree (yarlīgh-i humāyūn).24 Malik Ashraf, amir of Ḥiṣn-Kayfā, similarly went to kiss Tīmūr’s threshold in Rūḥā in 796/1394,25 in the same year as Amīr ‘Izz al-Dīn of Jazīra; however, the latter sup-

20 Thus, in the Sharafnāma, for most of the greater emirates such as Bidlīs, Ḥakkārī, Jazīra, ‘Amādiya, or Ḥiṣn-Kayfā, the historical narrative starts in earnest with the advent of Tīmūr and his relations with the rulers of these emirates (see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 90–91 (Ḥakkārī), 108 (‘Amādiyya), 120–122 (Jazīra), 153 (Ḥiṣn-Kayfā), and 365, 372–373 (Bidlīs)). This undoubtedly has to do with the fact that, save for the Nuzhat al-qulūb and Tārīkh-i guzīda by Ḥamdallāh Mustawfī Qazwīnī, most of Sharaf Khān’s earliest sources were Timurid authors like Sharaf al-Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī (d. 858/1454), ‘Abd al-Razzāq Samarqandī (d. 887/1482), and Mīrkhwānd (d. 903/1498). On the Sharafnāma’s sources, see Sacha Alsancakli, “Le Šarafnāma de Šaraf Xān Bidlīsī (ca. 1005/1596–1597). Composition, transmission et réception d’une chronique des dynasties kurdes entre les Safavides et les Ottomans” (PhD dissertation, Université Sorbonne Nouvelle, 2018), I, 34–36, 52–53, and chapters 1 and 2. 21 Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 365. Sharaf Khān gives little information on this ruler, outside of the fact that he was a contemporary of Tīmūr; however, Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn also appears in the Ta’rīkh bayt Ayyūb. According to al-Ḥiṣnī, he was the son of a man named Ghirz, and his brothers Shams al-Dīn and Bahā’ al-Dīn ruled in his name in Mūsh and Akhlāṭ. See Cahen, “Contribution”, 78, 89. 22 He conquered both cities; see Ḥāfiz-i Abrū, Zubdat al-tavārīkh, ed. Sayyid Kamāl Ḥāj Sayyid Javādī (Tehran: Vizārat-i farhang va irshād-i islāmī, 1380sh/2001), II, 665. 23 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 372–373; Sharaf al-Dīn ‘Alī Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma-yi Tīmūrī, ed. Sa‘īd Mīr Muḥammad Ṣādiq and ‘Abd al-Ḥusayn Navā’ī (Tehran: Kitābkhāna, mūza va markaz-i asnād-i Majlis-i shurā-yi islāmī, 1387sh/2008), I, 747. Yazdī got his information from the Ẓafarnāma by Niẓām al-Dīn Shāmī, composed ca. 806/1404 (see Niẓām al-Dīn Shāmī, Ẓafarnāma. Tārīkh-i futūḥāt-i Amīr Tīmūr Gūrkānī, ed. Panāhī Samnānī (Tehran: Intishārāt-i Bāmdād, 1363sh/1984), 152), which was also used as a source by Ḥāfiz-i Abrū (d. 833/1430) for this passage (Ḥāfiz-i Abrū, Zubdat al-tavārīkh, II, 788). Unlike Ḥāfiz-i Abrū, however, Yazdī substantially enriched Shāmī’s text. The story of Ḥājī Sharaf’s meeting with Tīmūr also appears in the Maṭla‘ al-sa‘dayn va majma‘ al-baḥrayn by ‘Abd al-Razzāq Samarqandī, who modelled his text on Yazdī (see Kamāl al-Dīn ‘Abd al-Razzāq Samarqandī, Maṭla‘ al-sa‘dayn va majma‘ al-baḥrayn, ed. ‘Abd al-Ḥusayn Navā’ī (Tehran: Mu’assassa-yi muṭāla‘āt va taḥqīqāt-i farhangī, 1372–1375sh/1993–1996), II, 698). 24 Tīmūr’s yarlīgh also added to Ḥājī Sharaf’s dominions the districts of Pāsīn, Awnīk, and Malāzgird, located to the northwest of Lake Van. According to Sharaf Khān, this document was kept in the Diyādīnid archives in Bidlīs, until it was lost as a result of the conflict between the Safavid turncoat Ulama Pasha Tekelū and Sharaf Khān’s grandfather, Sharaf Khān I, in 940/1534. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, 373. 25 Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 153; Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma, I, 752–753.

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posedly failed to pay the taxes requested of him, and the city of Jazīra was sacked in Jumādā I 796 (March 1394).26 As for Malik ‘Izz al-Dīn Shēr I (r. ca 786–815/1384–1412), ruler of Ḥakkārī, he initially tried to resist Tīmūr and barricaded himself in the fortress of Van before submitting to the formidable forces of the army besieging him. He was then confirmed as ruler of Ḥakkārī by an imperial decree.27 In addition to bringing Tīmūr gifts on each of their visits, all these amirs also agreed to pay taxes to the imperial treasury, although this is only mentioned explicitly in the context of Amīr ‘Izz al-Dīn’s failure to do so.28 As can be gathered from this summary, the amirs of Kurdistan mostly maintained individual relations with Tīmūr, and it is only with the advent of the Barlas conqueror’s son, Shāhrukh (r. 807–850/1405–1447), that we begin to see the emergence of a unified Kurdish front, especially on the part of the amirs from the Lake Van area. This region also constituted the original pastoral lands of the Qarāqūyunlū tribal confederation,29 enemies of the Timurids, which Shāhrukh had entered Kurdistan to defeat. Although, as a former ally of their defunct leader, Qarā Yūsuf (r. 791–802/1389–1400; and 808–823/1406–1420), the amir of Bidlīs Malik Shams al-Dīn (r. ca. 808–825/1406–1422) could have been expected to side with the Qarāqūyunlū,30 he seems to have decided to change loyalties, and he sent a courteous letter to Shāhrukh on 18 Dhū al-Ḥijja 823 (24 December 1420), only forty days after Qarā Yūsuf’s passing.31

26 In addition to the tax issue, a man named Shaykh from ‘Izz al-Dīn’s retinue had supposedly stolen from Tīmūr and was then given protection by the amir of Jazīra. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 120–122; Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma, I, 758–760. 27 One of his kinsmen named Nāṣir al-Dīn, however, tried again to confront Tīmūr and, after a 27-days siege in the castle of Van, was killed along with his men. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 90–91; Yazdī, Ẓafarnāma, I, 579–581; also, on Malik ‘Izz al-Dīn Shēr II’s career, Alexander Khachatrian, “The Kurdish Principality of Hakkariya (14th-15th Centuries)”, Iran and the Caucasus 7/1–2 (2003): 37–58. 28 On Tīmūr’s policy of conquest, see Jean Aubin, “Comment Tamerlan prenait les villes”, Studia Islamica 19 (1963): 83–122. 29 See Sara Nur Yıldız, “Post-Mongol Pastoral Policies in Eastern Anatolia during the Late Middle Ages”, in At the Crossroads of Empires: 14th-15th Century Eastern Anatolia, ed. Deniz Beyazit (Istanbul: Orient-Institut, 2012), 35–37. 30 On Malik Shams al-Dīn’s career and his relations with Qarā Yūsuf, see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 374–381; Alsancakli, “Le Šarafnāma de Šaraf Xān Bidlīsī”, 7–12; and Thomas A. Sinclair, “The Armenians and the Kurdish Emirs of Bidlis under the Kara Koyunlu”, in Armenian Baghesh-Bitlis and Taron-Mush, ed. Robert G. Hovannisian (Costa Mesa: Mazda, 2001), 155–174. 31 Qarā Yūsuf had passed away on 7 Dhū al-Qa‘da 823 (13 November 1420); this interval of forty days corresponds to the mourning period in Islam. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 378, taken from Samarqandī, Maṭla‘ al-Sa‘dayn, III, 297; also Ḥāfiz-i Abrū, Zubdat al-Tavārīkh, IV, 751, who gives a different date for the sending of the letter, 21 Dhū al-Ḥijja 823 (27 December 1420).

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Subsequent to the said letter, a Rōzhikid tribesman named Qāz̤ī Muḥammad was sent, in early Jumādā I 824 (early May 1421), as an ambassador to the Timurid court, then stationed in a locality called “Gitme Ghayāsī”, in the vicinity of Arzinjān.32 Finally, on the 1st Jumādā II 824 (3 June 1421), Shāhrukh’s camp in Margū, near Akhlāṭ,33 was visited by a delegation of Kurdish princes,34 among which Sharaf Khān, Ḥāfiz-i Abrū, and Dawlatshāh Samarqandī record Malik Shams al-Dīn of Bidlīs, Amīr Muḥammad of Akhlāṭ, Malik Muḥammad of Ḥakkārī, an unnamed son of Amīr Sulaymān of Khīzān, and Malik Khalīl of Ḥisn-Kayfā. These amirs, then, all accompanied Shāhrukh to Tabriz,35 after which they were allowed to go back to their estates36 and defend them against the onslaught of Qarā Iskandar (r. 823– 841/1420–1438), son of Qarā Yūsuf, in Kurdistan. The Qarāqūyunlū ruler was eventually defeated by Shāhrukh in Alashgird, about 120 kilometres north of Lake Van, during a three-day battle that took place on 29 Rajab-1 Sha‘bān 824 (30 July-1 August 1421).37 Shāhrukh then decided to leave Western Iran and retire to the Timurid heartlands of Khurāsān, paving the way for a comeback of Qarā Iskandar to the Lake Van region. The Turkmen ruler returned with a vengeance, determined to punish the amirs of Kurdistan for their alliance with Shāhrukh. He invited “the Kurdish princes of Bidlīs, Akhlāṭ, Van, and Vustān”,38 namely Malik Shams al-Dīn of Bidlīs

32 Coming to Shāhrukh’s court loaded with presents, Qāz̤ī Muḥammad “was allowed to sit in the imperial divan and returned fully satisfied” (dar dīvān-i humāyūn rukhṣat-i julūs yāfta maqz̤ī almarām ‘awdat farmūd). See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 378; Samarqandī, Maṭla‘ al-Sa‘dayn, III, 304. 33 This place is described by Sharaf Khān as a “green and blooming meadow” (marghzār-i sabz va khuram), and its name may be related to the Kurdish word merg, “meadow”. See Scheref, ScherefNameh, I, 378. 34 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 83, 91, 154, 212; also Samarqandī, Maṭla‘ al-Sa‘dayn, III, 308. 35 Ḥāfiz-i Abrū, Zubdat al-tavārīkh, IV, 776; Samarqandī, Maṭla‘ al-Sa‘dayn, III, 307–308. 36 According to Sharaf Khān, Malik Shams al-Dīn left Shāhrukh’s camp on 16 Jumādā II 824 (18 June 1421). See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 379. 37 See Faruk Sümer, “Karakoyunlular”, İslam Ansiklopedisi 24 (2001): 436. The Āqqūyunlū chronicler Abū Bakr Tihrānī, locating the battle in Arjīsh, comments that Shāhrukh was informed of Qarā Iskandar’s arrival by “news coming from Bidlīs”. See Abū Bakr Tihrānī, Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, ed. Faruk Sümer and Necati Lugal (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1962–1964), I, 84. 38 Corresponding to modern-day Westan/Gevaş, on the southern shore of Lake Van, Vusṭān was one of the major cities of the Armenian kingdom of Vaspurakan (908–1021), later briefly incorporated as a province of the Byzantine Empire, before the rise of the Saljuqs at the end of the 5th/11th century. It then became the capital of the emirate of Ḥakkārī in the late 8th/14th century, and the “amirs of Vusṭān” thus refer, in early modern sources, to the Ḥakkārī amirs. See Khachatrian, “Hakkariya”; Richard G. Hovannisian, ed., Armenian Van/Vaspurakan (Costa Mesa: Mazda, 2000); also Orhan Kılıç, “Van Eyaleti’ne Bağlı Sancaklar ve İdarî Statüleri (1558–1740)”, Osmanlı Araştımarları 21 (2001): 192.

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and Malik Muḥammad of Ḥakkārī (r. 861–872/1412–1423), to a hunting party in the pastures (yaylāq) of Mingöl (present-day Bingöl), in the summer of 825/1422.39 This invitation was conveyed by the amir of Chamishgazak, Shaykh Ḥasan Beg, who was entrusted with this mission “because he was also Kurdish”, and thus less likely to arouse Shams al-Dīn and Malik Muḥammad’s suspicions.40 This episode is particularly telling, since it alludes to a certain sense of solidarity among the Kurdish amirs, and yet also suggests that this mutual trust could be broken for purposes of individual advancement or self-preservation: although it is unknown if Shaykh Ḥasan Beg was actually aware of Qarā Iskandar’s ultimate plans,41 Malik Shams al-Dīn and Malik Muḥammad were both imprisoned immediately upon their arrival in the Turkmen ruler’s camp.42 Then ensues, in the accounts written by Sharaf Khān and the Āqqūyunlū chronicler Abū Bakr Tihrānī, a dramatic description of Malik Shams al-Dīn’s heroic death at the hands of Qarā Iskandar. According to these authors, the Turkmen ruler first escorted Shams al-Dīn and his retinue back to the fortress of Bidlīs, in which the Rōzhikid commander Amīr Mahād had shut himself in.43 Noting that Amīr Mahād’s

39 Missing from the Timurid sources used by Sharaf Khān, and thus also from the Sharafnāma, this episode is only found in Tihrānī’s Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, composed between 875/1469 and 883/1478, and in Ḥasan Beg Rūmlū’s Aḥsan al-Tavārīkh, a much later Safavid source, composed in 985/1578. Tihrānī attributes Qarā Iskandar’s wrath against the Kurdish amirs to their supposed relationship with the Āqqūyunlū ruler Qarā Yülük ‘Osmān; however, Sharaf Khān suggests a more probable explanation for the Qarāqūyunlū leader’s ire in the Kurds’ contacts with Shāhrukh. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 380–381; Tihrānī, Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, I, 96–98; and Ḥasan Beg Rūmlū, Aḥsan al-Tavārīkh, ed. ‘Abd al-Ḥusayn Navā’ī (Tehran: Bābak, 1349–1357sh/1970–1978), I, 134. 40 Bidān amr chinān bāz namūd ki Shaykh Ḥasan Bēg Kurd ast va ān aqwām-i īshān-rā ast; Tihrānī, Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, I, 96. 41 The amir of Chamishgazak eventually fled from Qarā Iskandar, taking refuge at the court of another Kurdish ruler, the Mirdāsid Shāh ‘Alī Beg, in Agīl (see Tihrānī, Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, I, 98). Unlike most of the greater Kurdish houses, the amirs of Chamishgazak later became loyal allies of Uzun Ḥasan Āqqūyunlū (r. 857–882/1453–1478). See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 163–164; John E. Woods, The Aqquyunlu: Clan, confederation, empire (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1999), 91, 187. 42 According to Armenian sources, Malik Muḥammad was then poisoned by order of Qarā Iskandar, along with his father Malik ‘Izz al-Dīn. See Tihrānī, Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, I, 96–98; Khachatrian, “Hakkariya”, 49–51. 43 Malik Shams al-Dīn is presented by Tihrānī as “a son-in-law of Iskandar Mīrzā and governor of Bidlīs and Akhlāṭ, as well as 21 fortresses in the region of Bidlīs and the plain of Mūsh” (ḥākim-i Bidlīs va Akhlāṭ būd va bīst u yak qal‘a az tavābi‘-i Bidlīs va ṣaḥrā-yi Mūsh bidū muta‘alliq būd va Iskandar Mīrzā rā dāmād). According to the more correct account by Sharaf Khān, however, he was Qarā Iskandar’s brother-in-law, and the son-in-law of Qarā Yūsuf. See Tihrānī, Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, I, 98; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 376.

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son was among the men held prisoner alongside Shams al-Dīn, both chroniclers then recount how, when offered to surrender the fortress in exchange for the prisoners’ lives, “Amīr Mahād refused, bravely leaving his son in the hands of the enemy”.44 The members of Shams al-Dīn’s escort were then executed, and Qarā Iskandar took the Bidlīsite ruler to Akhlāṭ, freeing him of his chains in front of the city gates in the hope that the Rōzhikid tribesmen guarding them might yield and capitulate in exchange for the life of their leader. In reaction, Shams al-Dīn immediately put his chains back on, signalling his men not to surrender at any cost. Qarā Iskandar had him executed on the spot and he returned to Bidlīs where his army was still besieging the city.45 Once the exemplary story of Shams al-Dīn’s death has been told, both Sharaf Khān and Abū Bakr Tihrānī cut short the narrative, with the Āqqūyunlū chronicler claiming that the starving folks of Bidlīs ultimately surrendered the town, while Sharaf Khān, for his part, does not mention any discontinuity in Diyādīnid rule. As for Malik Shams al-Dīn’s body, it is said to have been brought back to Bidlīs and buried in the city’s Gökmeydan, near the mosque he had founded, where his mausoleum still stands today.46 Called Shams al-Dīn Walī (“the Saint”), or Shams al-Dīn Kabīr (“the Great”) by the folks of Bidlīs and beyond,47 Malik Shams al-Dīn was certainly the greatest Kurdish amir of his time, as well as an important figure in regional politics, notably playing a pivotal role in the Qarāqūyunlū-Timurid conflict. He was likely the first Diyādīnid amir to mint coins and have the khuṭba read in his name,48 and Sharaf Khān indi-

44 Amīr Mahād qabūl nakard va az ghāyat-i mardī va mardānagī pisar rā bi dast-i dushman guzāsht. Tihrānī had previously declared that “Amīr Mahād Rosikī attended to the defence of the fortress with a party of Rosikids, who were the bravest and most gallant warriors of their epoch” (Amīr Mahād-i Rosikī bā jamā‘at az Rosikiyān ki bi mardī va shujā‘at mashhūr-i zamān būdand bi muḥāfiẓat-i qal‘a qiyām namūd). See Tihrānī, Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, I, 98. 45 See Tihrānī, Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, I, 98; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 376. 46 According to an alternate version of events also given by Sharaf Khān, however, Malik Shams al-Dīn’s body was buried in an undisclosed location in Akhlāṭ, lending credence to the idea that the Diyādīnids did, indeed, temporarily lose power in Bidlīs. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 380–381; also, on Malik Shams al-Dīn’s mosque and mausoleum in Bidlīs, Mehmet Oluş Arık, Bitlis yapılarında Selçuklu rönesansı (Ankara: Selçuklu Tarih ve Medeniyeti Enstitüsü, 1971), 64–65, and Thomas A. Sinclair, Eastern Turkey: an Architectural & Archaeological Survey (London: The Pindar Press, 1987–1990), I, 303. 47 Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 373, 379. 48 This declaration of independence took place while the sons of the late Qarā Yūsuf were busy fighting each other to determine who would inherit the leadership of the Qarāqūyunlū confederation, a period called by Sharaf Khān fatrāt-i Tirākima, “the Turkmans’ interregnum” (see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 379).

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cates that nearly two centuries later, at the time of the Sharafnāma’s composition, some of these coins were still being circulated and “kept as lucky charms by the noblemen of Kurdistan”.49 The magical properties attributed to these shamsaddīnī coins are in line with what was then seen as the amir’s saintly character, also manifested in the status of his mausoleum as a ziyārat (local site of pilgrimage) in Bidlīs.50 Malik Shams al-Dīn was thus, by all accounts, a larger-than-life heroic figure, and the story of his downfall is especially relevant to our subject as it represents the earliest known example of a historical persona turned into a kind of Kurdish “folk hero” and imbued with a specific set of qualities representing quintessential “Kurdishness”. Although there is no evidence for the existence of an orally transmitted epic recounting Malik Shams al-Dīn’s struggle against Qarā Iskandar, similar for example to the later story of the siege of Dimdim, information provided in the Sharafnāma suggests that folk stories centred around these series of events did circulate, at least in Bidlīs. A major actor in this narrative is an unnamed daughter of Qarā Yūsuf, and wife of Shams al-Dīn whom she had married in 808/1405–1406, not long after her father had fled Mamlūk captivity in Cairo, as part of a Qarāqūyunlū-Rōzhikid military alliance.51 According to a story conveyed by Sharaf Khān, she then ended up being the reason for Shams al-Dīn’s execution at the hands of her brother Qarā Iskandar and, although the Kurdish author explicitly casts doubt over the veracity of this account, it is remarkable in what it tells us about the state of Kurdish-Turkmen relations in the early 9th/15th century, and the way these relations informed the construction of Kurdishness. The story goes as follows:

49 Dar bilād-i Kurdistān al-yawm zar-i fiz̤z̤ī-yi yak-misqālī ma‘rūf bi shamsaddīnī hast ki mardumān-i Kurdistān-i khāṣṣ barā-yi tabarruk va tayammun nagāh dāshta-and va bi naẓar-i faqīr rasīda; see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 379–380. Malik Shams al-Dīn was probably the son of Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn, and not his grandson, as claimed by Sharaf Khān (Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 373–374, but mentioned as “Shams al-Dīn b. Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn”, p. 380); indeed, four coins minted in the name of Shams al-Dīn b. Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn are extant: two are found in the collections of the British Museum, London (see Stanley Lane-Poole, The Coinage of Bukhárá (Transoxiana) in the British Museum from the time of Timur to the present day. Classes XXII, XXIII (London: Printed by Order of the Trustees, 1882), 102, n° 247 and 248); one is kept in the holdings of the Halûk Perk Museum, Istanbul (Halûk Perk and Hüsnü Öztürk, Anadolu sikke monografileri I (Istanbul: Halûk Perk Müzesi yayınları, 2007), 174); and a fourth coin was sold as part of an auction realised on the website Stephen Album Rare Coins, “List 249. Item No. 83453”, available online at http://db.stevealbum.com/php/lot_rtl. php?site=1&lang=1&sale=249&lot=1028 (last accessed on 17 November 2022). 50 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 379–380. 51 For the particulars of this alliance, see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 376; also Sacha Alsancakli, “Matrimonial Alliances and the Transmission of Dynastic Power in Kurdistan: The Case of the Diyādīnids of Bidlīs in the Fifteenth to Seventeenth Centuries”, Eurasian Studies 15/2 (2017): 235–237.

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Of the reason behind his [Malik Shams al-Dīn’s] murder, they say that his spouse, who was Iskandar’s sister and a daughter of the Turkmens, was by nature very fond of horse riding, polo, and archery, and that, in Bidlīs, she now and then wanted to spend time enjoying these pursuits like she had until then been used to. Despite the Great Amir’s attempts to dissuade her from such perilous activities, by telling her: “We are Kurds. The mores of the Turkmens are shunned and reproved in the eyes of our people, and so it is better to abandon them”, there was no preventing it: “When an affair cannot be accomplished by kind treatment it becomes necessary to effect it by harshness.”52 The matter necessarily reached the point of dispute and aggravation, and Amīr Shams al-Dīn, by cause of the girl’s extreme wittiness and effrontery, struck her a blow in the mouth, breaking one of her teeth. The girl wrapped that broken tooth in the paper of a letter filled with complaints and reproaches, that she then sent to her brother in Arjīsh. On this count alone, that dauntless tyrant, known as Mad Iskandar, had Amīr Shams al-Dīn killed when the latter came to meet him in Akhlāṭ. Yet, this story appears far from the truth to the author of the present work, and the reason for the Great Amir’s murder more certainly lies in the loyalty and friendship he had demonstrated towards the threshold of Mīrzā Shāhrukh.53

If we associate this story with that of Shams al-Dīn’s later “martyrdom”, as it is called by Sharaf Khān and Abū Bakr Tihrānī —a powerful term suggesting that Qarā Iskandar was seen by these authors as an heretic—54 we can make out the picture of a 52 This is a quotation from Sa‘dī’s Gulistān, a book oft-quoted by Sharaf Khān, in Francis Gladwin’s early 19th century English translation. See Muṣliḥ al-Dīn ‘Abdallāh Sa‘dī Shīrāzī, Gulistān, ed. Khalīl Khaṭīb Rahbar (Tehran: Ṣafī ‘Alīshāh, 1376sh/1997), bāb 3, ḥikāyat 20, 270; Musle-Huddeen Sheikh Saadi, of Shiraz, The Gulistan or Rose Garden, transl. Francis Gladwin (Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1865), 235; also Mustafa Dehqan, “Literary Citations in the Sharaf-Nāma”, Nûbihar Akademî 1/2 (2014): 22, 28. 53 Dar zabān bā‘is-i qatl-i ū rā chinān naql mīkunand ki mankūḥa-yi ū ki hamshīra-yi Iskandar ast chūn ū dukhtar-i Tirākima būd ṭabī‘atash bi asb tākhtan va chawgān bākhtan va tīr andākhtan iltizāz-i tamām dāshta va mīkhwāst ki dar Bidlīs gāh gāh awqāt-i khūd rā bi dastūr-i ma‘hūd bi ān shughl ṣarf namāyad har chand Amīr-i Kabīr ū rā az ān shughl-i khaṭīr mana‘ mīkard ki mā ṭāyifa-yi Akrād īm va qā‘ida-yi Tirākima dar nazd-i mardumān-i mā mustaḥsan va maqbūl nīst tark-i ān awlī-st mamnū‘ namīshud naẓm bi laṭāfat chū bar niyāyad kār ✶ sar-i bī-ḥurmatī kashad nāchār ✶ bī al-z̤arūra kār bi sarḥad-i nizā‘ va khushūnat rasīda Amīr Shams al-Dīn az ghāyat-i zabān-āvarī va bi-ḥayāyī-yi dukhtar mushtī bi dahān-i ū zada yak dandān-i ū shikasta dukhtar dandān-i khūd rā dar miyāna-yi kāghiz pichīda maktūbī mushtamil bar shakwa va shikāyat nazd-i barādar-i khūd bi Arjīsh firistād ān z̤ālim-i bībāk ki bi Delū Iskandar mawṣūf būd chūn Amīr Shams al-Dīn bi irāda-yi mulāqāt-i ū bi Akhlāṭ raft bidīn vāsiṭa ū rā bi qatl āvard amā bi i‘tiqād-i rāqim-i ḥurūf īn qawl mustab‘ad mīnamāyad ẓāhiran bā‘is-i qatl-i Amīr-i Kabīr iẓhār-i ikhlāṣ va yakjihatī-yi ū-st ki bi āsitāna-yi Mīrzā Shāhrukh karda-būd. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 380–381. 54 Tihrānī and Sharaf Khān are the only two authors that mention Malik Shams al-Dīn Walī’s execution, both describing it with the term shahādat (“martyrdom”), usually employed to discuss the killing of Muslims by non-Muslims, or in the context of interconfessional strife between Sunni and

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“civilised” and “noble” Kurdish ruler, acting in line with Islamic traditions and the urban society’s conservative mindset, constructed as a reverse image of the nomadic Turkmens, whose mores allowed for women to practice polo and archery and talk back to men. Thus, while Malik Shams al-Dīn is presented as a personification of the just ruler promoted in Muslim political thought, Qarā Iskandar is described as the perfect Islamic villain: an ignorant, heretical tyrant deprived of nobility and adab.55 This clear-cut perspective on a Kurdish-Turkmen “morality conflict” also essentially informs Sharaf Khān’s depiction of Kurdish-Āqqūyunlū relations which, despite an amicable start, quickly turned sour.56 Indeed once Uzun Ḥasan had gotten rid of his arch-enemy Jahānshāh b. Qarā Yūsuf and put an end to Qarāqūyunlū rule over Irānzamīn in 872/1467, he then instructed one of his senior commanders, Sulaymān Beg Bījanoghlū, to conquer the fortresses of Kurdistan, notably that of Bidlīs.57 In the context of this attempt at a takeover, as well as during the entire Āqqūyunlū-Kurdish conflict, the ethnic and ethical difference between Kurds and Turkmens was, it seems, overtly manipulated by the various actors of the struggle. Thus, a man named Maḥmūdoghlū, Sulaymān Beg’s poet and panegyrist (shā‘ir va maddāḥ), highlighted the strong-willed character of the Kurds by writing to his patron: “O Great King! This Kurd from Bidlīs to Sulaymān will not subject [himself]! As a time-honoured tradition his hearth he shall strive to protect.”58 Indeed, Amīr Ibrāhīm b. Ḥājī Muḥammad, Shī‘i. Although the Qarāqūyunlū were, according to some authors, Shī‘i, while both Diyādīnids and Āqqūyunlū were Sunni, the religious question, if it played any part at all, is usually envisioned as but a minor part of the conflict (see Sümer, “Karakoyunlular”, 438; Clifford E. Bosworth, The new Islamic dynasties: A chronological and genealogical manual (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), 274). In this context, the term shahādat is perhaps used by Sharaf Khān to reinforce the contrast between Malik Shams al-Dīn Walī’s saintly character and Qarā Iskandar’s depiction as an “ignorant and uncivilised man” (bi ghāyat mard-i jāhil-i nādān būd; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 380), in line with the idea of a clash of moral codes between Kurds and Turkmens that principally informs this passage. See Tihrānī, Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, I, 98; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 376. 55 On adab, see Franz Rosenthal, Knowledge Triumphant. The Concept of Knowledge in Medieval Islam (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 240–333. 56 On a visit by three Kurdish amirs, namely Shams al-Dīn Dushwār of Bidlīs, Malik Ṣāṣūnī, and Ibrāhīm Beg Sulaymānī, to Uzun Ḥasan in 856/1452, see Tihrānī, Kitāb-i Diyārbakriyya, I, 228–232. In the long run, only the amirs of Chamishgazak and Zirqī would remain allies of the Āqqūyunlū; see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 163–164; Woods, The Aqquyunlu, 91, 187. 57 Even after pledging allegiance to Uzun Ḥasan, most of the Kurdish amirs appear to have switched their loyalties back to Jahānshāh b. Qarā Yūsuf and, when the Qarāqūyunlū ruler was killed, in 872/1467, the Āqqūyunlū ruler “started acting with hostility towards the governors of Kurdistan” (chūn Ḥasan Bēg-i Āqqūyunlū mutaṣaddī-yi umūr-i salṭanat-i Īrān gasht inḥirāf bā ḥukkām-i Kurdistān payda karda). See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 92. 58 Shahā! Ol Bidlīsiñ Kürdī müṭī‘ olmaz Süleymāna / ezelden ḳalmış ‘ādetdur çalışırlar ocaḳ üstüne; see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 389; Sharaf Khān, Sharafnāma, ms. Hunt. Don. 13, f. 142v, ll. 11–13 (the second part of the line is missing from ms. Dorn 306 and is thus also omitted in

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then ruler of Bidlīs, put up a fierce fight sustaining three years of siege before finally giving up the city.59 He was exiled to Qom, in central Iran, while the Āqqūyunlū conquered most of Kurdistan, including the emirates of Ḥakkārī and Jazīra,60 ushering in a period of Turkmen rule which lasted several decades and left an enduring mark on the princely houses and presumably on the communities of Kurdistan. Yet, as expected, the region remained restless and by 894/1489 Ḥasan Beg of ‘Amādiya61 and Malik ‘Izz al-Dīn Shēr II (r.  864–897/1460–1492) of Ḥakkārī had broken into open rebellion,62 causing Uzun Ḥasan’s son and successor, Ya‘qūb Beg (r. 883–896/1478–1490), to once more dispatch Sulaymān Beg with the mission of restoring Āqqūyunlū authority in the Kurdish lands.63 Despite initial successes and “more than two years spent attempting to subdue the region”,64 the White Sheep commander did not manage to capture the rebellious amirs, and Malik ‘Izz al-Dīn, firmly entrenched in the fortress of Bāy, supposedly sent Sulaymān Beg a derisive letter insultingly referring to the Turkmens’ nomadic way of life, in which he wrote: “As long as the fortresses of Gūrgīl, ‘Amādiya, Bāy, and Sūy from Bidlīs are in our hands, we will never fear you, and your tents shall remain, in the eyes of the Kurds, as worthless as buffalo dungs!”65 In 896/1491, Ya‘qūb’s suspicious death ushered in a Vladimir Veliaminov-Zernov’s edition). Apart from the Sharafnāma, we have found no mention of Maḥmūdoghlū in any other works. 59 On Amīr Ibrāhīm’s career and the Rōzhikid struggle to restore Kurdish rule in Bidlīs, led by Muḥammad Agha Galhokī, see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 387–400. 60 Sharaf Khān unexpectedly praises the Āqqūyunlū administration of Jazīra by Chalabī Beg, noting that “Chalabī Beg showed such diligence in protecting and governing the province of Jazīra that a greater degree of care would be unconceivable” (Chalabī Beg bi naw‘ī dar ḥifẓ va ḥarāsat va z̤abt va z̤iyānat-i vilāyat-i Jazīra ihtimām namūd ki fawqash mutaṣavvar nīst). As for the Ḥakkārī emirate, after its conquest by Ṣūfī Khalīl, the province’s administration was entrusted to the Dumbulī Kurds. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 92–94, 123. 61 Ḥasan Beg’s precise dates of rule are unknown; however, he ruled at least 38 years, from 894/1489 to 933/1527. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 108–109; Jean-Louis Bacqué-Grammont and Chahryar Adle, “Une lettre de Ḥasan Beg de ‘Imâdiyye sur les affaires d’Iran en 1516 (Études Turco-safavides, XII)”, Acta Orientalia Academiæ Scientiarum Hungaricæ 36/1–3 (1982): 29–37. 62 According to Sharaf Khān, however, the emirate of ‘Amādiya was never entirely subdued by the White Sheep. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 108–109. 63 Sulaymān Beg was Ya‘qūb’s guardian, father-in-law, and chief of staff, and he had been instrumental in securing Ya‘qūb’s victory over other royal contenders, notably his eldest brother Sulṭān Khalīl, after the death of Uzun Ḥasan in 882/1478. See Woods, The Aqquyunlu, 125–132. 64 Woods, The Aqquyunlu, 143. 65 Hargāh qal‘a-yi Gūrgīl va qal‘a-yi ‘Amādiya va qal‘a-yi Bāy va qal‘a-yi Sūy min i‘māl-i Bitlīs dar dast-i mā-st aṣlan az shumā bīm va harās nadārīm va khaymahā-yi shumā dar naẓar-i Akrād ḥukm-i sargīn-i gāvmīsh dārad; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 146. According to Armenian sources, however, Malik ‘Izz al-Dīn Shēr was killed by Sulaymān Beg Bījanoghlū at this juncture. See Khachatrian, “Kurdish Principality”, 54–56.

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renewed period of civil war among the Āqqūyunlū,66 and, owing to this chaotic state of affairs, it was only a few years before the amirs of Kurdistan managed, one by one, to restore their rule in their ancestral lands. Given this long-standing feud, the amirs of Kurdistan were certainly glad to see the power of the White Sheep crumble, and they unsurprisingly welcomed Shāh Isma‘īl Ṣafavī’s advent in Tabriz in 907/1501. Thus, in an important display of collective action a delegation of fourteen Kurdish rulers under the leadership of Sharaf Khān I (r. 908–915/1502–1509 and 920–940/1514–1534), grandfather of the author of the Sharafnāma, and Malik Khalīl of Ḥisn-Kayfā (r. 913–918/1507–1512 and 921–930/1516–1524),67 paid homage to the Safavid ruler in Khōy in the winter of 915/1509–1510.68 In a modus operandi similar to the earlier Kurdish-Timurid diplomatic exchanges, Kurdish-Safavid contacts had been initiated by the most prominent amirs on an individual basis: Sharaf Khān I had visited Ismā‘īl I (r.  907–930/1501–1524) in Akhlāṭ two years earlier, in 913/1507–1508,69 while Malik Khalīl had developed with the young king an even stronger bond, marrying one of his sisters, by the token of which he was granted full authority over the government of Ḥiṣn-Kayfā without interference from the newly-appointed Qizilbāsh vālī of Diyārbakr, Muḥammad Khān Ustājlū (d. 920/1514).70 66 Woods, The Aqquyunlu, 149–172. 67 On Malik Khalīl, see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 155–158; Yusuf Baluken, “Hasankeyf Eyyûbîleri (630–866/1232–1462)” (PhD dissertation, Atatürk Üniversitesi, 2016), 218–230. 68 Our only source for this visit is the Sharafnāma, in which Sharaf Khān notes that it happened when, “for the second time, Shāh Ismā‘īl wintered in Khōy”, which can only refer to the winter of 915/1509–1510. Sharaf Khān also lists some of the amirs in attendance, namely Shāh ‘Alī Beg, governor of Jazīra, Mīr Dāwud, governor of Khīzān, ‘Alī Beg, governor of Ṣāṣūn, and Shāh Muḥammad, governor of Shērwān. The latter two were not imprisoned and, much to the contrary, they became close members of Ismā‘īl’s entourage. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 192–193, 232, 410– 411, discussed in Akihiko Yamaguchi, “Shāh Ṭahmāsp’s Kurdish Policy”, Studia Iranica 41/1 (2012): 105–111; also, on Ismā‘īl’s qishlāq in Khōy, Amīr Ṣadr al-Dīn Ibrāhīm Amīnī Haravī, Futūḥāt-i Shāhī, ed. Muḥammad Riz̤ā Naṣīrī (Tehran: Anjuman-i āsār va mafākhir-i farhangī, 1383sh/2004–2005), 316; Ghiyās al-Dīn b. Humām al-Dīn Khwāndamīr, Tārīkh-i Ḥabīb al-siyar fī akhbār afrād al-bashar, ed. Jalāl al-Dīn Homā’ī (Tehran: Khayyām, 1333sh/1954), IV, 500; Ghulām Sarwar, History of Shāh Ismā‘īl Safawī (Aligarh: Published by the author, 1939), 55. 69 Sharaf Khān I held a lavish banquet in honour of the Shah, and gifted him horses, camels, mules, and sheep; he was rewarded with a diploma for the government of Bidlīs, as well as precious robes of honour (bi manshūr-i iyālat-i Bidlīs ma‘a khil‘aṭhā-yi fākhira-yi girānbahā sarafrāz shuda). See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 409–410; Amīnī Haravī, Futūḥāt-i Shāhī, 280–281; Khwāndamīr, Ḥabīb al-siyar, IV, 488–489; also Sarwar, Shāh Ismā‘īl, 53; Jean-Louis Bacqué-Grammont, “Visions du festin au palais dans la chronique de Şarafo-ddîn, prince de Bitlîs”, Journal Asiatique 299/2 (2011): 561–562. 70 The identity of Malik Khalīl’s wife is unknown. See Yamaguchi, “Shāh Ṭahmāsp’s Kurdish Policy”, 108.

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According to the author of the Sharafnāma, the Shah initially received the Kurdish delegation with all due honours; however, incited by Muḥammad Khān, he eventually incarcerated them, while three Qizilbāsh commanders, Chāyān Sulṭān Ustājlū (d. 930/1523–1524), Dīv Sulṭān Rūmlū (d.  933/1527), and Yagān Beg Tekelū (active mid-900s to mid-910s/1500s), were tasked with the conquest of the emirates of Bidlīs, Ḥakkārī, and Jazīra, respectively.71 The harsh decision was ill-advised, as recognised even by Ḥasan Beg Rūmlū in the Aḥsan al-Tavārīkh, a later Safavid source,72 and only a few months had passed when Shāh Ismā‘īl, bound eastward in his campaign against the Uzbeks,73 decided to release the amirs, save for their leaders Sharaf Khān I and Malik Khalīl, whom he kept as prisoners at the ordu en route to Khurāsān. Malik Khalīl ended up spending more than four years in captivity, only managing to flee thanks to the Safavid defeat at the battle of Chāldirān (920/1514),74 while Sharaf 71 On the authority of the vālī of Herat Shāhqulī Sulṭān Ustājlū Chāvushlū, whose father was then part of Muḥammad Khān’s retinue, Sharaf Khān notes that the latter’s hostility was due to the disrespectful behaviour exhibited towards him by some of the amirs or their representatives, including Shaykh Amīr Bilbāsī, vakīl of Sharaf Khān I. Furthermore, according to Francesco Romano, a Venetian merchant in Bidlīs, Sharaf Khān I “detested the Qizilbāsh”. As suggested by Yamaguchi, this mutual enmity should of course be understood in the context of the “time-honoured Kurdish-Turkmen rivalry for the control of Eastern Anatolia”. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 410–412; Jean Aubin, “Chroniques persanes et relations italiennes. Notes sur les sources narratives du règne de Šâh Esmâ’il Ier”, Studia Iranica 24/2 (1995): 253–259; Yamaguchi, “Shāh Ṭahmāsp’s Kurdish Policy”, 105–108. 72 Of course, as a grandson of Dīv Sulṭān Rūmlū, Ḥasan Beg can hardly be seen as impartial in his judgments on the Ustājlū, who stood as important rivals of the Rūmlū in the intra-Qizilbāsh struggle for control of the principal offices of the nascent Safavid state. In fact, Muḥammad Khān Ustājlū is also lambasted by the author as partly responsible for Selīm I’s decision to attack the Safavids in Kurdistan. See Rūmlū, Aḥsan al-Tavārīkh, II, 187–188; also Adel Allouche, The Origins and Development of the Ottoman-Ṣafavid Conflict (906–962/1500–1555) (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1983), 107–108. 73 The Shaybānid Uzbeks, under their leader Muḥammad Khān, had put an end to Timurid rule in Khurāsān three years prior, in 913/1507. As a result of this Eastern campaign, Shāh Ismā‘īl defeated and killed Muḥammad Khān Shaybānī in Marv, on 20 Sha‘bān 916 (22 November 1510), and established Safavid rule in the region. On the Safavid-Uzbek “duel for Khurāsān” in the earlier part of the 10th/16th century, see notably Maria Szuppe, Entre Timourides, Uzbeks et Safavides : questions d’histoire politique et sociale de Hérat dans la première moitié du XVIe siècle (Paris: Association pour l’avancement des études iraniennes, 1992); Martin B. Dickson, “Sháh Tahmásb and the Úzbeks (The Duel for Khurásán with ‘Ubayd Khán: 930–946/1524–1540)” (PhD dissertation, Princeton University, 1958); and ‘Abbāsqulī Ghaffārīfard, Ravābiṭ-i Ṣafaviya va Uzbakān (913–1031 h. q.) (Tehran: Daftar-i muṭāla‘āt-i siyāsī va bayn al-millalī, 1376sh/1997–1998), 95–121. 74 He was helped in his escape by a Rōzhikid Bāyagī clansman named Bāshī Buyūk (“Big Head”), who was later killed in the vicinity of Van in the course of fighting with the Maḥmūdī, then allied with the Safavids. According to Sharaf Khān, Malik Khalīl had remained a prisoner among the Safavids for three years; however, if we accept the winter of 915/1509–1510 as the time of the Kurdish

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Khān I was, for his part, able to escape much sooner, in early to mid-916/mid-1510,75 in large part thanks to the efforts of the senior Rōzhikid commander Muḥammad Āghā Galhokī.76 Although he then failed to immediately drive the Qizilbāsh away from Bidlīs,77 the Kurdish amir did go on to play a major role in the alliance that ultimately secured the integration of most of the emirates of Kurdistan into the Ottoman Empire, thereby creating new dynamics of power in the region, as well as new representations of Kurdish unity—or the lack thereof—in the Ottoman-Safavid period. amirs’ visit to Ismā‘īl, the malik of Ḥiṣn-Kayfā in fact spent about four and a half years in captivity. On Malik Khalīl’s captivity, see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 155–158; on the Maḥmūdī as Safavid vassals, Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 302; and, on the Bāyagī as one of the five clans composing the “ancient tribe of the province of Bidlīs” (‘ashīrat-i qadīmī-yi vilāyat-i Bidlīs), Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 361. 75 Sharaf Khān states that his grandfather fled while the ordu was stationed in Chālī Gol, probably to be identified with present-day Chamlī Gol, in the shahristān of Takāb, in Western Azerbaijan, thus indicating that the escape took place before the Safavid troops reached Khurāsān. Interestingly, the author of the Sharafnāma notes that “the Turkmens applauded the boldness and bravery” of Muḥammad Partāfī, amīr akhūr (“master of the stables”) of Sharaf Khān I, with whom he had traded places so that his escape would remain concealed until the morning. This shows that, despite having contrasted views on certain ethical matters, as we have seen, Kurds and Turkmens alike held traits like bravery and honour in high regard. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 412–413. 76 Described by Sharaf Khān as “the most excellent of the advocates of the noble household, and the most laudable among the followers of the dynasty of Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn” (guzīda-yi khayr-andīshān-i khānidān-i rif‘at-āyīn va sutūda-yi dawlat-khwāhān-i dūdmān-i Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn), “a pillar of the greater and lesser tribes of the Rōzhikids” (‘umda-yi ‘ashāyir va qabāyil-i Rūzakī), and “a man who, in the belief of the compiler of these folios, was unparalleled among the Rōzhikid tribe, and perhaps in the whole country of Kurdistan, in his loyalty and devotion” (bi za‘m-i ḥāwī-yi awrāq masl-i ū mardī dar dawlat-khwāhī va khayr-andīshī dar miyāna-yi ‘ashīrat-i Rūzakī balki dar tamām-i bilād-i Kurdistān shakhṣī bar nakhāsta bāshad), Muḥammad Āghā Galhokī had, in 900/1494–1495, been the indefatigable driving force behind the restoration of Diyādīnid rule in Bidlīs. When Sharaf Khān I was captured, he followed the path of the Safavid ordu, and one day brought saddled horses to the outskirts of the camp, thereby allowing the amir to escape. As we shall see below, Muḥammad Āghā was later instrumental in the Kurdish-Ottoman agreement which allowed for the expulsion of the Safavids from Bidlīs, in 922/1516. His son, Ḥājī Sharaf, also served as vakīl to Shams al-Dīn b. Sharaf Khān I during the latter’s brief 18-months rule, in 940–941/1533–1535. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 390–400, 413, 415, 438. 77 Led by Sharaf Khān I’s vakīl Shaykh Amīr Bilbāsī, the Rōzhikids fought a pitched battle against the Qizilbāsh on the main square of Bidlīs, the Gökmeydan, at the end of 916/1510 or the beginning of 917/1511. Although the Rōzhikids initially had the upper hand, Muḥammad Beg Pazūkī’s betrayal ultimately sealed their fate, bringing about a catastrophic defeat for Shaykh Amīr and his men. The vakīl himself was killed alongside his son, and their bodies were burned by the Qizilbāsh troops. To avenge this treacherous move, Sharaf Khān I later massacred the entire Pāzūkī tribe, including women and children, as one of his first acts after restoring his rule in Bidlīs, in 922/1516. The tribe’s surviving members then entered Safavid service, although a section of the Pāzūkī eventually rallied the Ottomans again under Murād III. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 328–334, 414–415, 435–436.

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Kurdish Disunity as Nature’s Work and God’s Wisdom: The Ottoman-Kurdish Alliance as Viewed in the Sharafnāma by Sharaf Khān and the Selīm Shāhnāma by Idrīs Bidlīsī “The Kurdish tribes do not defer nor submit to one another, and have no unity among themselves”:78 it is with this peremptory assertion that Sharaf Khān starts his brief discussion of Kurdish unity or, rather, disunity, a question addressed in the prolegomena (muqaddima) of the Sharafnāma, titled “On the origins and mores of the Kurdish tribes” (dar bayān-i ansāb-i ṭavāyif-i Akrād va zikr-i aṭvār-i īshān).79 In support of this statement, the amir of Bidlīs appeals to the authority of his contemporary Ḫoca Sa‘d al-Dīn, Ottoman scholar and historian, and author of the chronicle Tācü’t-tevārīḫ,80 from which Sharaf Khān cites, “Each of them [the Kurds], choosing the path of isolation, raised the flag of absolute rule and, accustomed to the independent ways of their solitary mountaintops, they have proven themselves unable to agree on any affair, save for the oneness of God”.81 In addition to relying on this ipse dixit, the Kurdish chronicler then produces the ultimate argument from authority, by telling a story according to which a Kurdish envoy named Bughdūz Aman was sent to the Prophet Muḥammad by Oghūz Khān, lord of Turkistān, and that this envoy, due to his wretchedness, had caused

78 Tavāyif-i Akrād mutābi‘at va muṭāva‘at-i hamdīgar namīkunand va ittifāq nadārand; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 16. 79 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 12–19. For an in-depth analysis of this section, see Alsancakli, “Le Šarafnāma de Šaraf Xān Bidlīsī”, I, 69–106. 80 On Ḫoca Sa‘deddīn’s life and career, see Şerafettin Turan, “Hoca Sâdeddin Efendi”, İslam Ansiklopedisi 18 (1998): 196–198. 81 Har yak bi da‘vā-yi infirād rāyat-i istibdād bar afrāshta-and va dar qilāl-i jibāl bi istiqlāl majbūl gashta bi ghayr az kalima-yi tawḥīd dar hīch umūr ittifāq nadārand; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 16. Upon perusal of the published text of the Tācü’t-tevārīḫ, I have been unable to find such a quotation; however, Idrīs Bidlīsi echoes a very similar sentiment in his Selīm Shāhnāma, writing that “in the land of the Kurds, there are various rulers of clans and tribes large and small, and it is the law of God that, save for declaring their belief in the oneness of God, and partaking in the community of the Most glorious Prophet, they do not ever agree with one another on any affair” (dar bilād-i Akrād mulūk-i ṭavāyif va aqwām va ‘ashāyir-i mukhtalif and va sunnat Allāh bar īn cārī nīst ki bi ghayr az mushārakat-i kalima-yi tawḥīd va musāhamat dar ummat-i payghambar-i majīd dar ḥīch amrī hamīsha ittifāq namāyand). See Ḫoca Sa‘deddīn, Tācü’t-tevārīḫ, unknown editor (Istanbul: Maṭba‘a-ı Āmire, 1279–1280/1862–1863); Hoca Sadettin Efendi, Tacü’t-tevarih, ed. İsmet Parmaksızoğlu (Ankara: Kültür Bakanlığı yayınları, 1979); and Idrīs-i Bidlīsī, “Selim Şāh-nāme”, 234 (Persian text), 257 (Turkish translation).

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the Prophet to exclaim, “May God not favour unity amongst this people [the Kurds], or else they would end up wrecking the world!”.82 “Indeed, [further adds Sharaf Khān], since that day, this folk was not favoured with superior authority and absolute power, except for five groups that claimed supreme authority and, sometimes, also had coins minted and the Friday prayer read in their names.”83 This Bughdūz Aman is, of course, the Turkish bey Büğdüz Emen, a commander in the Bozok branch of the Oghūz who, in the different versions of the Oghūznāma, is said to have been the only Oghūz chief to see the face of the Prophet.84 Evidence suggests that Oghūznāma stories were in circulation among the Kurds,85 and the tale recorded in the Sharafnāma was likely based on some variation of the epic adapted for a Kurdish audience. This adaptation is intriguing in many respects, notably showing how Büğdüz’s association with the Prophet apparently made him, in the eyes of the Kurds, one of the story’s most prominent characters. It is also reflective of a tendency in Kurdish folklore to appropriate Turkish and Iranian heroic figures by making them Kurdish as evidenced, a little further into the muqaddima, by Sharaf Khān’s contention that Rustam, Farhād, Gurgīn Mīlād, and Bahrām Chubīn were Kurds.86 Yet, and perhaps more remarkably, the figure of Büğdüz is then turned into an anti-hero as part of an exemplary story expressing the common folk’s perception of disunity among the Kurdish rulers as an intractable and fateful issue, seemingly irresoluble by worldly means. This lack of unity was further considered to be the cause, not only of the Kurds’ oppression by the Turks, Arabs, and Persians, but also of the disorderly state of the internal affairs of Kurdistan. Thus, Sharaf Khān points to the lack of an absolute ruler governing the country as the reason for the “dauntless and bloodthirsty” nature of the Kurds,87 giving as evidence the meagre compensation (diyat) given to the victims

82 Ḥaqq-i subḥāna va ṭa‘ālā īn ṭāyifa rā muvaffaq bi ittifāq nagardānad wa illā ‘ālamī dar dast-i īshān tabāh khwāhad shud; see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 17, as well as Idrīs Bidlīsī’s aforementioned quotation, in which Kurdish disunity is presented as a “law of God” (sunnat Allāh). 83 Dīgar az ān rūz dawlat-i uẓmā va salṭanat-i kubrā muyassar-i īn ṭāyifa nashuda magar panj gurūh rā ki da‘vā-yi salṭanat va ‘urūj namūda-and va gāhī sikka va khuṭba ham bi nām-i khūd namūda; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 17. 84 See Orhan Şaik Gökyay, Dede Korkut (Istanbul: Arkadaş basımevi, 1938), 23; Muharrem Ergin, Dede korkut kitabı. Giriş, metin, facsimile (Ankara: Türk Dil Kurumu, 1958), I, 113; also Faruk Sümer, “Oğuzlar’a Ait Destanî Mahîyetde Eserler”, Dil ve Tarih Coğrafya Fakültesi Dergisi 17/3–4 (1959): 428. 85 See Faruk Sümer, “Oğuzlar’a ait eserler”, 451; also, on the story found in the Sharafnāma, 408, note 184. 86 The amir of Bidlīs calls Rustam “Rustam-i Kurd”, instead of “Rustam-i Gurd”. See Scheref, ScherefNameh, I, 15–16; Alsancakli, “Le Šarafnāma de Šaraf Xān Bidlīsī”, I, 104–106. 87 Chūn dar miyāna-yi ṭāyifa-yi Akrād farmān-farmāyī nāfiz al-ḥukm nīst aksar saffāk va bībāk va khūnrīz mībāshand chinānchi bi andak jarāyimī fasād-i bisyār mīkunand; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 17.

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or their kin in cases of murder or mutilation.88 Nonetheless, in yet another reference to God’s plan and foreknowledge, the amir of Bidlīs finds in the Kurdish tribes’ incessant internecine strife a sign of “God’s wisdom” for, were it not so, the Kurds, whom he describes as having many wives and children, would multiply and, “because of [their] sheer number, famine might strike the realm of Iran, and perhaps the whole wide world”.89 As Sharaf Khān’s explicit commentary on Kurdish affairs, Sharafnāma’s prolegomena highlight an inability by the Kurdish amirs to govern, as they are depicted as a group of constantly warring tribal lords: an idea which ultimately serves as a legitimizing tool for Ottoman rule in Kurdistan. Yet, as is often the case in the book, the discourse of the prolegomena is contradictory to the text of the chronicle90 in which we find much evidence in support of the claim that the Kurdish amirs were, in fact, a self-contained and cohesive group, characterised by strong ties of kinship and common interests. Constituted as a complex network of “cousin dynasties”, connected through claims of nasab (common ancestry)91 and matrimonial alliances,92 this group is referred to as the “amirs of Kurdistan”, or “amirs of the Kurds”, an expression which appears 98 times in the Sharafnāma.93 Sharaf Khān thus presents us with a picture of the Kurdish amirs’ solidarity and capacity for self-regulation, suggesting the existence of a paradigm of law and order in Kurdistan. In the framework of this paradigm, the amirs of the greater houses— namely, the governors of Bidlīs, Ḥakkārī, Jazīra, and Ḥiṣn-Kayfā—frequently saw it fit to intervene in the lesser amirs’ dynastic disputes, thereby regulating the country’s politics in order to ensure a degree of stability and maintain an appropriate balance of power among the various emirates.94 These greater amirs were usually the very same who initiated contacts with foreign rulers, as was the case with Tīmūr, Shāhrukh or Qarā Yūsuf Qarāqūyunlū, and they also headed the Kurdish delegations visiting these potentates.

88 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 17. 89 Bi ḥikmat-i ilahī awlād va atbā‘-i farāvān az īshān paydā mīshavad ki agar qatl-i yakdīgar dar miyāna-yi īshān namībūd yaḥtamil ki az kasrat-i Akrād qaḥṭ va ghalā dar mamālik-i Īrān balki dar jumla-yi jahān miyuftād wa yaf‘alu Allāhu mā yashā’u wa yaḥkimu mā yurīd; Scheref, ScherefNameh, I, 18. 90 The muqaddima itself includes obvious contradictions; one can for example mention Sharaf Khān’s assertion that “all the Kurdish tribes are Shāfi‘ī” (bī al-tamām ṭavāyif-i Akrād shāfi‘ī-mazhab and), almost immediately followed by a list of important tribes, like the Bukhtī and Maḥmūdī, described as entirely or partly Yezidi. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 14. 91 See Alsancakli, “Warriors, Kings, and Caliphs”. 92 See Alsancakli, “Matrimonial Alliances”. 93 See Alsancakli, “Le Šarafnāma de Šaraf Xān Bidlīsī”, I, 89. 94 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 96, 202–209, 301, 381–386, 394.

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This hierarchy seems to have been accepted by all, as seen in the case of the amirs’ visit to Ismā‘īl I under the leadership of Sharaf Khān I of Bidlīs and Malik Khalīl of Ḥiṣn-Kayfā. However, the realisation, in the earlier part of the 10th/16th century, of a Kurdish-Ottoman alliance, principally mediated by the Ottoman statesman Idrīs Bidlīsī, led to a change in the amirs’ role in Kurdistan, whereby several Ottoman governors, or beylerbeyi, were put in charge of regional matters. Initially presented as a military measure destined to end Safavid occupation, this administrative transformation had important political and military consequences, not least among which was the development and dissemination of a discourse stressing the need for Ottoman control in Kurdistan by emphasizing the lack of unity among the Kurds. Before examining this discourse, a brief mention should be made of another part of the muqaddima that has attracted a lot of attention, both immediately after the Sharafnāma’s composition and with the advent of Kurdish nationalism from the early 20th century onwards, namely, Sharaf Khān’s definition of Kurdistan as “a province starting in Hurmuz, on the shores of the Indian ocean, and from there going in a straight line to the provinces of Malaṭyā and Mar‘ash, where it ends”.95 Yet, perhaps even more interesting to our understanding of Sharaf Khān’s political vision is a further description of the Kurdish lands as “similar to the provinces [vilāyat] of Georgia, Shakkī, Shīrvān, the Ṭavālish, the Gīlānāt [i.e., Gīlān-i Biyā-pīsh and Gīlān-i Biyā-pas], Rustamdār, Māzandarān, and Astarābād located to the north of Iran and opposite to Kurdistan”, in that “whenever some of the kings have deployed great

95 The author adds that “to the north of that line are the provinces of Fārs, Persian Iraq, Azerbaijan, and Armenia, and to the south, Diyār-i Bakr, Mawṣil, and Arabian Iraq. However, Kurds are found from the easternmost places in Orient to the end of the lands of Occident” (ibtidā-yi vilāyat-i Kurdistān az Hurmuz ast ki bar sāḥil-i Daryā-yi Hind vāqi‘ shud va az ānjā bar khaṭṭ-i mustaqīm kashīda miyāyad tā dar vilāyat-i Malāṭya va Mar‘ash muntahā mīgardad va dar jānib-i shumālī-yi īn khaṭṭ vilāyat-i Fārs va ‘Irāq-i ‘ajam va Ādarbāyjān va Arman ast va bar ṭaraf-i junūbī Diyār-i Bakr va Mawṣil va ‘Irāq-i ‘arab ammā shu‘bāt-i ū az aqṣā-yi vilāyat-i Mashriq tā bi nihāyat-i diyār-i Maghrib rasīda; see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 13–14). This definition was reproduced by Kātip Çelebi (d. 1067/1657) in his geographical treatise, the Cihānnümā, with a few interesting changes (vilāyet-i Kurdistān Hurmuzdan çāḳ Malāṭya ve Mar‘aş ḥudūdunda muntaha olur şumālisi vilāyet-i Arrān va cunūbisi Mawṣil ve ‘Irāḳ-ı ‘arabdır; see Kātip Çelebi, Cihānnümā, ed. Ibrahim Mütefferika (Istanbul: Maṭba‘a-ı Āmire, 1145/1732), 449, ll. 19–21). By contrast, Idrīs Bidlīsī describes the “country of the Kurds” as “starting in Urmiya and Ushnī and continuing up to Āmid, the capital city, and Malaṭya”, in the context of his mission with the Kurdish amirs (az mabādī-yi bilād-i Akrād ki Ūrmī va Ushnī ast tā Āmid-i maḥrūsa va Malaṭya tavajjuh namāyad). See Idrīs-i Bidlīsī, “Selim Şāh-nāme”, 207, 213 (Persian text), 234, 239 (Turkish translation). The published version of the editor’s dissertation unfortunately includes only the Turkish translation; see Idrîs-i Bidlîsî, Selim Şah-nâme, transl. Hicabi Kırlangıç (Ankara: T.C. Kültür Bakanlığı yayınları, 2001), 237, 243.

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efforts in the conquest of Kurdistan, they have suffered inexpressible hardships and, utterly sorry, have returned the land to its original owners”.96 In this passage, Sharaf Khān distinguishes between what he sees as two historically contrasting attitudes by foreign rulers towards Kurdistan. One is an approach of “soft conquest”, often undertaken with the assent and collaboration of the Kurdish amirs, nominally considered vassals but remaining the real power holders in the region. The other approach is that of a “hard conquest”, leading to attacks that intended to oust the local rulers and replace them with foreign governors, who were often the military commanders tasked with usurping their lands. Unsurprisingly, Sharaf Khān clearly favours the former approach, insisting that the latter is, in any case, bound to failure in the face of Kurdish bravado. For once, the Kurdish amir’s take in the muqaddima is consistent with the rest of the book. This is evidenced by the differential treatment given to the Timurids and Qarāqūyunlū, on the one hand, and the Āqqūyunlū and Safavids—at least under Shāh Ismā‘īl—on the other hand. A special reference is made by Sharaf Khān to Uzun Ḥasan Āqqūyunlū’s “hostility towards the governors of Kurdistan”, and the Kurdish-Āqqūyunlū conflict, partly framed, as we have seen, as a moral clash between Kurds and Turkmens, is amply highlighted in the history of some of the most prominent houses of Kurdistan. Yet, one cannot help but wonder how this dichotomic vision might be applied to the Ottomans’ Kurdish policy, as originally devised by Idrīs Bidlīsī. For his part, Sharaf Khān has nothing but praise for his fellow townsman,97 and he clearly seems to envision the Kurdish-Ottoman alliance as falling in the category of a consented, mutually beneficial collaboration. This view must certainly be qualified. While initially such was the case, as the Kurdish amirs could count on Ottoman backing to expel the Safavids, the administrative framework, a blueprint which would be refined throughout Ottoman rule, ultimately allowed the Porte to maintain a tight grip on the lords of the region. As such, without the necessity of any actual war of conquest, it allowed the Ottomans to intervene militarily in Kurdish affairs anytime they deemed it so advisable.

96 Salāṭīn-i ‘iẓām va khavāqīn-i kirām ṭam‘ dar ulkā va vilāyat-i īshān nakarda miḥz̤an bi pīshkash va iṭā‘at va mutāba‘at ki bi jār u safar-i īshān ḥāz̤ir bāshand rāz̤ī gashta muqayyad bi taskhīr nashuda-and va agar ba‘z̤ī az salāṭīn dar fatḥ va taskhīr-i Kurdistān jidd u jahd-i tamām farmūda-and va miḥnat va mashaqqat-i mā-lā-kalām kashīda-and ākhir nādim va pashīmān gashta bāz bi ṣāḥibān dāda-and masl-i vilāyat-i Gurjistān va Shakkī va Shīrvān va Ṭavālish va Ġīlānāt va Rustamdār va Astarābād ki dar shumāl-i Īrān va muḥāzā-yi Kurdistān vāqi‘ shuda; see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 18–19. In ms. Hunt. Don. 13 (f. 7r, ll. 19–21), we find mention of Māzandarān instead of Astarābād, while both names are written in ms. Elliott 332 (f. 7r, ll. 11–13). 97 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 342–344, 415.

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Although inevitably biased, the most informative source on Idrīs Bidlīsī’s mediation between the Porte and the Kurdish amirs remains to be the Ottoman statesman’s own Selīm Shāhnāma (926/1520), written for Selīm I (r. 918–926/1512–1520).98 In it, he notably recounts in detail how the Sultan sent him “to the Kurdish territories, from Ushnī and Urmiya to Āmid and Malaṭyā”,99 to broker a deal with the Kurds. Describing this agreement, Idrīs Bildīsī writes: Twenty five lords of the ancient houses of the Kurds, all sword-bearing Muslim commanders, in particular Malik Khalīl the Ayyubid, lord of Ḥiṣn-Kayf, Amīr Sharaf al-Dīn, lord of Bidlīs, Amīr Dāwud, lord of Khīzān, ‘Alī Beg, governor of Ṣāṣūn, ‘Abdul Beg, governor of Namīrān, and Amīr Malik ‘Abbās b. ‘Izz al-Dīn Shēr Beg [of Ḥakkārī] assembled for that meeting [with Idrīs], and they all expressed, from the bottom of their pure and sincere hearts, their agreement with this envoy to enter into a pledge of loyalty towards the Sultan of the faithful warriors, and to fight and resist the enemies. Yet, as the Kurds are a mountainous breed, driven by an innate desire for independence and constantly at odds with peers and equals, they also requested, as a supplementary means to attain that objective, and thereby fulfil that pledge, that an individual from among the great and celebrated commanders of the faithful Rumi army should be appointed among them by the Porte of the [Sultan] who rests in Heaven [Selīm I], so that, on the paths of war and the fields of battle, he may issue both orders and prohibitions and ensure unity among all of the [Sultan’s] servants, and thus aptly lead the troops through all sorts of troubles and hardships.100

98 The precise date of the book’s completion remains unknown, and both Selīm I and Idrīs Bidlīsī died in that same year 926/1520, respectively on 29 Ramaḍān/12 September and 27 Dhū al-Qa‘da/8 November. Due to Idrīs’ death, the work remained as a preliminary draft (musavvada), which the author’s son ‘Abū al-Faz̤l later prepared for publication at the request of Selīm’s son Süleymān I, a lengthy process which was only finished in Ramaḍān 974/April-May 1567, during the reign of Selīm II (r. 974–982/1566–1574). For more information on the Selīm Shāhnāma’s composition, see Hicabi Kırlangıç in Idrīs-i Bidlīsī, “Selim Şāh-nāme”, 33–35; also, on the portrayal of the Kurds in several Selīmnāme, including Idrīs’ work, see Nezahat Başçı, “Osmanlı-Safevi İlişkileri Bağlamında ‘Selimnâmeler’de Kürtler”, in Osmanlı Devleti ve Kürtler, ed. İbrahim Özcoşar and Abbas Vali (Istanbul: Kitap yayınevi, 2017), 207–239. 99 See Idrīs-i Bidlīsī, “Selim Şāh-nāme”, 207, 213. 100 Bīst u panj kas az mulūk-i khānidān-i qadīm-i Akrād va ṣanādīd-i misilmān-nijād khuṣūṣan Malik Khalīl Ayyūbī ṣāḥib-i Ḥiṣn-Kayf va Amīr Sharaf al-Dīn malik-i Bidlīs va Amīr Dāwud malik-i Khīzān va ‘Alī Beg ḥākim-i Ṣāṣūn va ‘Abdul Bēg ḥākim-i Namīrān va Amīr Malik ‘Abbās valad-i ‘Izz al-Dīn Shēr Bēg dar ān majma‘ mujtami‘ shudand va rāy va tadbīr-i hamagī-yi īn ṭāyifa bar tawsīq-i ‘uhūd va ta’kīd-i ‘uqūd dar bay‘at-i sulṭān-i mujāhidān va muqāvamat va mudāfa‘at-i mukhālifān ittifāq bi khulūṣ-i‘tiqād va ṣamīm-fawād bā īn dā‘ī namūdand. Fa-ammā istid‘ā-yi amrī az mutammimāt-i maqṣūd va muhimmāt-i ān ‘uhūd namūdand ki chūn ṭāyifa-yi Akrād balki ahl-i jibāl majbūl bar istiqlāl-ārā va mukhālifat bā aqrān va akfā-and va dar ma‘ārik-i qitāl va masālik-i jidāl shakhṣī az ‘uẓamā’-i umarā’-i nāmdār va sipāh-i mujāhidān-i Rūmī-shi‘ār jihat-i ijrā’-i avāmir va navāhī va tawfīq va talfīq-i junūd va sipāhī dar vaqāyi‘ va davāhī az āstān-i ‘illiyyīn-makān bi miyān-i īshān mībāyad ta‘yīn namūd ki mawjib-i jam‘-i shaml-i jumlagī-yi bandagān tavānad būd. See Idrīs-i Bidlīsī, “Selim Şāh-nāme”, 209.

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In this passage, the decision to select an official of the Porte to lead the Kurds is presented by Idrīs as a request made by the Kurdish amirs themselves, meant to appease their supposedly ‘innate’ confrontational tendencies. The stress is also put on the essentially military nature of this appointment, seen as a necessity to put forth an orderly battle front and ensure ultimate victory over the Qizilbāsh foe. Yet, we should certainly not take these statements at face value, and they are in fact contradicted by other authors. For example, ‘Azīz Efendi, admittedly writing at a much later date (1042/1632–1633), actually emphasises the discipline of the Kurdish soldiers throughout the 10th/16th century, notably during the reigns of sultan Süleymān I (r. 926–974/1520–1566) and Murād III (r. 982–1003/1574–1595), to the point of claiming that, during the Third Ottoman-Safavid war (978–990/1586–1598), “on account of the strength and might of the commanders of Kurdistan there was not even any need for either the Grand Vezir, the governor general of Rumelia, or for the Janissary commander to participate in the battle (. . .), yet in a short time what praiseworthy victories were accomplished.”101 As an amir who took part in some of the campaigns of the war,102 Sharaf Khān’s perspective on the issue, as developed in the Sharafnāma, still broadly follows Idrīs Bidlīsī’s vision of the events, while differing in some particulars of the narrative, notably by stressing the critical role played by the author’s grandfather, Sharaf Khān I, and the latter’s senior commander, Muḥammad Agha Galhokī, two figures largely overlooked in Idrīs’ story. Sharaf Khān writes: As Amīr Sharaf [Sharaf Khān I] did not, in a few days’ time, manage to conquer the province of Bidlīs and expel the Qizilbāsh tribes from it, and since he was made aware that the world-conquering sultan Selīm Khān had his mind set upon conquering the country of Iran, he heeded the counsels of (. . .) the holy man from Bidlīs, Ḥakīm Idrīs, and of the most excellent of the advocates of the noble household, and the most laudable among the followers of the dynasty of Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn, Muḥammad Āghā Galhokī, and demonstrated his loyalty and trust in the felicitous Ottoman threshold and, having convinced twenty of the amirs and governors

101 Bu iki Pâdişâh-i cennet-mekân ve Şehinşâh-i illiyîn-âşiyânın iltifât-i hümâyunları semeresiyle Ekrâd beyleriniñ her biri şîr-i jiyân ve bebr-i bayân olup, Ḳızılbaş-i bed-mi‘âşa ne ṭabancalar urdukları, ḥattâ merḥûm cedd-i ‘âlîleri Sulṭân Murâd Hân aleyhi’r-raḥme ve’l-ġufrân ḥażretleriniñ zamân-i sa‘âdet-iḳtirânlarında vâḳi‘ olan ‘Acem seferlerine Kürdistân beyleriniñ ḳuvvet u ḳudreti sebebiyle vezîr-i â‘zam ve Rumeli-beylerbeyisi ve Yeñiçeri-ağası varmağa iḥtiyâc olmayıp sâ’ir vuzerâ ḳullarından birisi Rûmelinde dört beş Sancaḳ-beyi ve Yeñiçeri-ketḫudâsı üç dört biñ Yeñiçeri ile varıp az müddetde ne ḳadar futûḥât-i cemîle vucûde geldiği, mesṭûr-i ṣaḥîfe-i eyyâm ve meşhûr-i elsine-i ḥâṣṣ u ‘avâmdır. See ‘Azîz Efendi, Kanûn-nâme-i sultânî li ‘Azîz Efendi, ed. and transl. Rhoads Murphey (Harvard University: Office of the University Publisher, 1985), 14 (translation), 35 (Turkish text). 102 On Sharaf Khān’s military career, and notably his participation to the war of 986–998/1578– 1590 on both sides of the conflict, see Alsancakli, “Le Šarafnāma de Šaraf Xān Bidlīsī”, 216–227.

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of Kurdistan to agree with him in this matter, he then had Ḥakīm Idrīs and Muḥammad Āghā carry a letter of subjection to the fortunate threshold of the Sultan.103

Although presented as heeding the advice jointly given by Idrīs Bidlīsī and Muḥammad Āghā,104 Sharaf Khān I is then shown as being the one to convince twenty of his peers to declare their subjection to the Sultan. In Sharaf Khān’s account, then, the focus of the story lies not in Istanbul, at the Porte with Idrīs, but rather in Kurdistan and, notably, in Bidlīs with the involvement of two figures neglected, in the case of Sharaf Khān I, or downright ignored, for Muḥammad Āghā, in the Selīm Shāhnāma. The author of the Sharafnāma follows by detailing the content of this letter of subjection, as transmitted after the victory against Shāh Ismā‘īl at Chāldirān by Idrīs Bidlīsī to the Sultan, then returning from Tabriz to the imperial capital: As the Sultan and his suite departed from Tabriz towards Anatolia, Ḥakīm Idrīs told His Glorious Majesty that the amirs of Kurdistan had prayed for the world-swaying king to be so benevolent as to bestow upon them the government of their ancestral provinces, and to appoint an individual from among their ranks to the lofty grade of governor-general (bēglerbegī), so that they may altogether march upon Qarā Khān [Ustājlū] and expel him from Diyārbakr. The world-conquering Sultan declared as a reply that whoever among the amirs and governors of Kurdistan was deemed worthy of general command (amir al-umarā’ī) shall be elevated to that position, so that the rest of the Kurdish amirs may obey him and submit to his commands, and diligently set about driving away the Qizilbāsh.105

As can be seen in this passage, the Kurdish amirs do not, according to Sharaf Khān, request for a beylerbeyi to be appointed as their commander from the kapı kulları; much to the contrary, they wish for such a leader to be named “from among their

103 Chūn Amīr Sharaf rā taskhīr-i vilāyat-i Bidlīs va ikhrāj-i ṭāyifa-yi Qizilbāsh chand rūz muyassar nashud va az mā fī al-z̤amīr-i sulṭān gītī-satān Sulṭān Salīm Khān āgāh gasht ki irāda-yi taskhīr-i bilād-i Īrān dārad bi ittifāq va tadābīr-i (.  .  .) ‘ārif-i Bidlīs a‘nī Ḥakīm Idrīs va guzīda-yi khayrandīshān-i khānidān-i rif‘at-āyīn va sutūda-yi dawlat-khwāhān-i dūdmān-i Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn Muḥammad Āghā-yi Galhōkī iẓhār-i ikhlāṣ va i‘tiqād bi āsitāna-yi dawlat-nihād-i ‘Osmānī namūd dar īn mawād bīst nafar az umarā va ḥukkām-i Kurdistān rā bi khūd hamdāstān karda ‘ubūdiyatnāma maṣḥūb-i Mawlānā Ḥakīm Idrīs va Muḥammad Āghā ravāna-yi āsitāna-yi iqbāl-āshyāna-yi sulṭānī gardānīd; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 415–416. 104 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 387–400. 105 Chūn mawkib-i rāyat-i sulṭānī az mawz̤i‘-i Tabrīz bi jānib-i Rūm ma‘ṭūf shud Ḥakīm Idrīs bi ‘izz-i ‘arz̤-i jalāl-i sulṭānī rasānid ki umarā’-i Kurdistān az alṭāf va iḥsān-i shāh-i jahān istid‘ā dārand ki vilāyat-i mawrūsī-yi īshān rā bi īshān arzānī dāshta shakhṣī rā dar miyāna-yi īshān buzurg va bēglerbegī naṣb sāzand ki bi ittifāq bar sar Qarā Khān rafta ū rā az Diyārbakr ikhrāj namāyand sulṭān-i gītī-satān dar javāb-i īshān farmūdand ki har kudām az umarā va ḥukkām-i Kurdistān ki liyāqat-i amīr al-umarāyī dārand dar miyāna-yi īshān naṣb karda shavad ki sāyir-i umarā’-i Akrād gardan bi iṭā‘at va inqiyād-i ū nihāda bi daf‘ va raf‘-i Qizilbāsh qiyām va iqdām namāyand; see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 416.

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ranks”, so that they may jointly march against the Safavid commander Qarā Khān Ustājlū (d. 922/1516)106 and reinstate their rule over their ancestral estates. This request is approved by the Sultan, who suggests that “whoever among the amirs and governors of Kurdistan [is] deemed worthy of general command shall be elevated to that position”. We are thus presented here with an agreement like the arrangement concluded, in the 9th/15th century, by the amirs of Kurdistan with the Qarāqūyunlū and the Timurids, if only made more explicit, in the Ottoman case, by the clear designation of a primus inter pares from amongst their midst. However, Idrīs Bidlīsī has a different perspective: Ḥakīm Idrīs responded: “They [the amirs of Kurdistan] have too much personal pride, and not one of them would accept to defer to the other. If the goal to be achieved is to try and disperse the Qizilbāsh multitude, one of the slaves of the world-sheltering Porte should be entrusted with this affair so that the Kurdish amirs may obey and submit to him, and the matter may quickly be resolved.” Accordingly, the deputy grand-vizier (çavuşbaşı) Meḥmed Agha, known as Bıyıklı Meḥmed, was made commander of commanders in Diyārbakr and [named] the general of the army of Kurdistan (mīr-i mīrān-i Diyārbakr va sardār-i ‘askar-i Kurdistān), and sent to conquer that province.107

In the Sharafnāma’s narrative, then, it is Idrīs Bidlīsī who, arguing against the wishes expressed by the Kurdish commanders, advises the Sultan that it would be more prudent, in terms of ensuring the Kurds’ fealty, to appoint as their commander an agent of the Porte. It is unknown how the amirs of Kurdistan responded to this development; all that is known is that, as mentioned by Sharaf Khān in 921/1515, the çavuşbaşı Bıyıḳlı Meḥmed Paşa was ultimately chosen to take up the newly created position of beylerbeyi of Diyārbakr, a governorship then encompassing all the principalities of Kurdistan. However, hostility soon arose between Meḥmed Paşa and Idrīs Bidlīsī, and Selīm I settled the dispute by summoning Idrīs to Damascus, whence 106 Qarā Khān was the brother of Muḥammad Khān Ustājlū, the Safavid vālī of Diyārbakr, whom he replaced in that position after the latter’s death at the battle of Chāldirān, also marrying his widow, a daughter of Shāh Ismā‘īl. Qarā Khān was killed at the battle of Qoch Ḥiṣār, a crushing Safavid defeat which signaled the end of Iranian presence in the majority of Kurdistan. See Rūmlū, Aḥsan al-Tavārīkh, II, 204–207; Sarwar, Shāh Ismā‘īl Safawī, 83–85; Hasan Tan, “Osmanlı- Kürt İlişkileri Bağlamında Koçhisar (Dede Kargın) Savaşı”, Kadim Akademi Sosyal Bilimler Dergisi 5/1 (2021): 18–33. 107 Ḥakīm Idrīs ‘arz̤a dāsht ki dar īnhā kasrat-i vaḥdat-i zātiyya mawjūd ast va hīchkudām bi yakdīgar sarfurūd namiyārand agar chinānchi maṭmaḥ-i naẓar sa‘ī bar tafrīq-i jam‘ va tamzīq-i shaml-i ṭāyifa-yi Qizilbāsh ast yakī az bandagān-i dargāh-i ‘ālam-panāh rā badīn mahamm naṣb bāyad kard tā umarā’-i Akrād muṭī‘ va munqād-i ū gashta bi zūdī īn mahamm fayṣal pazīrad binā’ ‘alā hazā Muḥammad Āghā-yi chāvush-bāshī al-ma‘rūf bi Biyighlū Meḥmed rā mīr-i mīrān-i Diyārbakr gardānīda va sardār-i ‘askar-i Kurdistān sākhta bi ‘azm-i taskhīr-i ānjā ravāna farmūd; see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 416–417.

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he would accompany the Sultan to Egypt to campaign against the Mamlūks, leaving Meḥmed Paşa as the sole representative of the Porte in Kurdistan.108 After the Ottoman conquest of the fortress of Van (Rajab 955/August 1548), a second governorship was created in Kurdistan centred around that city, with the former Anadolu defterdarı Çerkes İskender Paşa (d. 979/1571) as its first governor.109 The new beylerbeyilik of Van incorporated most of the Kurdish principalities bordering Safavid Iran, such as the emirates of Bidlīs, Ḥakkārī, and the Maḥmūdī.110 Inside these beylerbeyiliks or eyalets,111 the sancaks ruled by the Kurdish amirs112 were further divided into two categories, yurtluk-ocaklıks and ḥükümets, the latter being exempted from taḥrir (taxation) and inclusion into the tımar system.113 In both cases, however, these sancaks differed from the classic Ottoman sancaks, as the amirs were not subjected to appointment or dismissal by the central government, and power was transmitted in the ruling dynasty, typically from father to son. While the Ottoman beylerbeyi in Van and Diyārbakr usually served for quite short periods,114 it seems that at least some of them did manage to exert strong influence on the local amirs, as manifested, for example, in the praise bestowed on Van governors Köse Ḫüsrev Paşa (d. 995/1587) and Ciğālazāde Sinān Paşa (d. 1014/1606) in the Sharafnāma.115 The connection between Kurdish amirs and the Ottoman ehl-i örf could even 108 See Vural Genç, “Rethinking Idris-i Bidlisi: An Iranian Bureaucrat and Historian between the Shah and the Sultan”, Iranian Studies 52/3–4 (2019): 443–444. 109 See Orhan Kılıç, “Van Eyaleti’ne Bağlı Sancaklar”, 90. The Anadolu defterdarı was the second highest-ranking financial officer of the Porte. 110 See the table in Kılıç, “Van Eyaleti’ne Bağlı Sancaklar”, 192–193; also İbrahim Özcoşar, “Sultan ve Mir: Osmanlı Kürt İlişkilerine Giriş”, in Osmanlı Devleti ve Kürtler, ed. İbrahim Özcoşar and Abbas Vali (Istanbul: Kitap yayınevi, 2017), 21–22. Some of the northernmost and southernmost Kurdish emirates were also attached to the provinces of Erzurum, Shahrazūr, and Baghdad. 111 The only distinction between the two terms was a difference in the rank of the governor, the beylerbeyilik being administered by a beylerbeyi (two-tailed pasha), and the eyalet by a vizier (three-tailed pasha). See Kılıç, Van Eyaleti’ne Bağlı Sancaklar, 191. 112 For a list of these sancaks according to the Sharafnāma, see Kumiko Saito, “16. ve 17. Yüzyıllar Doğu ve Güneydoğu Anadolusu’nda Timarların Çeşitli Biçimleri: Farklı Uygulamalara Tek İsim Koymak”, Osmanlı Araştırmaları 51 (2018): 69. 113 See Orhan Kılıç, “Ocaklık Sancakların Osmanlı Hukukunda ve İdarî Tatbikattaki Yeri”, Fırat Üniversitesi Sosyal Bilimler Dergisi 11 (2001): 257–274; also, on the use of tımar in Ottoman Kurdistan, Saito, “Timarların Çeşitli Biçimleri”. 114 On the Van beylerbeyi, see notably Orhan Kılıç, XVI. ve XVII. Yüzyıllarda Van (1548–1648) (Van: Van Belediye Başkanlığı, 1997), 143–158, and, on the beylerbeyi of Diyārbakr, the various studies by Jean-Louis Bacqué-Grammont in the Études turco-safavides series. 115 As beylerbeyi of Van, Köse Ḫüsrev Paşa had secured Sharaf Khān’s defection to the Ottomans in Shavvāl 986/December 1578, at the very beginning of the Ottoman-Safavid war of 986–998/1578– 1590, and his subsequent appointment as governor in his ancestral principality of Bidlīs. Described by the Kurdish author as his “guide and mentor” (hādī va dalīl-i rāh), he served a total of four

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result in matrimonial alliances, as seen, for example, in the case of the marriage of Sharaf Khān’s grandson Abdāl Khān (r. 1031–1074/1622–1664) with Khānim Sulṭān, daughter of Meḥmed Paşa b. Zāl Maḥmūd Paşa, Ottoman sancakbey of Arjīsh and ‘Ādiljawāz, two cities to the north of Lake Van.116 Sometimes, Kurds also went on to become high-ranking members of the Ottoman administration, acting as mediators between the Porte and the amirs of Kurdistan.117 There was no doubt, however, as to who had the upper hand in the relationship between the Ottoman kapı kulları and the umarā’-i Kurdistān. The governors would usually interfere in the affairs of the region whenever they deemed it fit, notably to curb the rise of the more powerful amirs, who were more likely to threaten their military and financial domination.118 The influential amirs of Bidlīs were prime targets in this respect: Sharaf Khān I was killed by the troops of Ulama Tekelū and Diyārbakir beylerbeyi Fīl Ya‘qūb Paşa at Tātig (940/1534),119 his grandson Sharaf Khān, author of the Sharafnāma, was killed by Van beylerbeyi Aḥmed Paşa (1008–1009/1600),120 and the latter’s own grandson, Abdāl Khān, was attacked and forced to flee the city by yet another Van beylerbeyi, Melek Aḥmed Paşa (1065/1655).121 In these expeditions, the Ottoman governors could usually count on the support, or at least neutrality, of the rest of the Kurdish amirs, who acted both out of fear of Ottoman retribution and sometimes with a view to settling local conflicts. times and 11 and a half years as governor of Van. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 348–350, 454–455; Kılıç, XVI. ve XVII. Yüzyıllarda Van, 152. As for Ciğālazāde Sinān Paşa, his career was even more distinguished, culminating with a brief assignment as grand-vizier in Rabī‘ I-II 1005/October-December 1596. He is also highly praised by Sharaf Khān. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, II, 305–306; Alsancakli, “Le Šarafnāma de Šaraf Xān Bidlīsī”, 235–241; and, on Ciğālazāde Sinan Paşa’s career, Evrim Türkçelik, “Cigalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha y el Mediterráneo entre 1591–1606” (PhD dissertation, Universidad Autonoma de Madrid, 2012); also Mahmut H. Şakiroğlu, “Cigalazāde Sinan Paşa”, İslam Ansiklopedisi 7 (1993): 525–526. 116 Khānim Sulṭān’s grandmother was Şāh Sulṭān, daughter of sultan Selīm II. See Alsancakli, “Matrimonial Alliances”, 238–240. 117 Such was for example the case of Darwīsh Maḥmūd Kalājīrī, a Rōzhikid commander who, after the demise of Sharaf Khān I, engaged in a brilliant career in the Ottoman bureaucracy, attaining the office of kitābdār (head librarian) of Süleymān I. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 132–133; Mustafa Dehqan and Vural Genç, “Darwīsh Maḥmūd. An Unknown Sixteenth Century Kurdish Notable”, Journal Asiatique 306/1 (2018): 35–39. 118 As an example, Sharaf Khān’s revenue amounted, at the end of his career, to about 1 400 000 akçe yearly, 300 000 akçe more than the usual income for a beylerbeyi of Van. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 456; Alsancakli, “Le Šarafnāma de Šaraf Xān Bidlīsī”, 224–225; Kılıç, XVI. ve XVII. Yüzyıllarda Van, 153. 119 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 430–434. 120 See Dehqan and Genç, “Reflections”, and Dehqan and Genç, “Why Was Sharaf Khān Killed?”. 121 See Evliya Çelebi, Evliya Çelebi in Bitlis, ed. and transl. Robert Dankoff (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1990), 186–281; also, on the relationship between the beylerbeyi and the Kurds, Özcoşar, “Sultan ve Mir”, 30–33.

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By thus preventing the ascent of a strong leadership in Kurdistan Ottoman policy in the region effectively precluded any type of Kurdish unity, and this disunity was further reinforced by the Kurds’ participation in the Ottoman campaigns waged against their brethren. In this regard, Idrīs Bidlīsī’s use of the widespread stereotype of the Kurds’ excessive pride and haughtiness (vaḥdat-i zātiyya) in order to assert the futility of trying to achieve Kurdish union under a single commander, thereby legitimating Ottoman interference in Kurdish affairs, can be said to have served as a blueprint for the later administration of the region. All awhile this favoured the very dissension originally used as an argument against Kurdish self-rule. Despite this unbalanced, and more often than not arbitrary relationship, Ottoman policy towards the Kurds has, in the literature, generally been considered more pragmatic and accommodating than the approach followed by the Empire’s Safavid rivals, who supposedly “dealt severely with the Kurdish tribes and their chieftains, depriving them of their inherited districts”.122 Yet, in his studies of the Kurdish policies put forth by Shāh Ṭahmāsp and Shāh ‘Abbās, Akihiko Yamaguchi has challenged this view by arguing that, akin to the Ottomans, the Safavids also practised an “inclusion policy” vis-à-vis the Kurds, fully recognising the Kurdish amirs’ hereditary rights.123 Yamaguchi sums up the difference between the strategy of the two states by remarking that “the Safavids attached much more importance to the consolidation of a direct and close lord-vassal relationship with the Kurdish amirs” whereas, in the Ottoman case, “provincial governor-generals lay between the Ottoman imperial court and the Kurdish local society”.124 Indeed, in the 10th/16th century, the Safavid rulers, and notably Shāh Ṭahmāsp, strived to integrate the amirs of Kurdistan to the state’s political and military apparatus by educating the young sons of amirs in the royal palace at Qazvīn, and incorporating Kurdish tribesmen into the prestigious royal guard, the Qurchī corps.125

122 See Yamaguchi, “Shāh Ṭahmāsp’s Kurdish Policy”, 103, and Akihiko Yamaguchi, “The Safavid Legacy as Viewed from the Periphery: The Formation of Iran and the Political Integration of a Kurdish Emirate”, in Mapping Safavid Iran, ed. Nobuaki Kondo (Fuchu, Tokyo: Research Institute for Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa, 2015), 131. 123 See Yamaguchi, “Safavid Legacy”, 132, and Yamaguchi, “Kurdish Policy”, 114–115. 124 Yamaguchi, “Safavid Legacy”, 132–133. 125 A good example is Khalaf Beg, brother of Sharaf Khān, who was a yūzbāshī (centurion) in the Qurchī corps, before rallying the Ottomans following Ḥamza Mīrzā’s murder (994/1586). See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 205, 446–447; Mustafa Dehqan and Vural Genç, “Kurdish Power Holders in Seventeenth-Century Bidlīs: A Brief Introduction”, Kurdish Studies 10/2 (2022): 148–150; Dehqan and Genç, “Reflections”, 50; Yamaguchi, “Kurdish Policy”, 116–118, and, on the Qurchī corps, Masashi Haneda, “L’évolution de la garde royale des Safavides”, Moyen-Orient et Océan Indien 1 (1984): 41–64.

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The Kurds can, in fact, be said to have been treated similarly to the Qizilbāsh tribes, and both Kurds and Lurs were notably included in the History of the Qizilbāsh (Tārīkh-i Qizilbāshān) composed at the turn of the 11th/17th century by an anonymous author.126 As another sign of this integration, Kurdish-Qizilbāsh intermarriage seems to have been commonplace, and some dynasties, like the Ardalān, also intermarried directly with the Safavids.127 A final, noteworthy, aspect of the Safavids’ Kurdish policy, most relevant here, lies in the existence of the position of amīr al-umarā’-i Kurdistan, or amīr al-umarā’-i Akrād in Iran under Ismā‘īl  I and Ṭahmāsp. This position was discontinued after the Treaty of Amasya (962/1555) and later revived, for a short while, under Ismā‘īl II—with Sharaf Khān, author of the Sharafnāma, as the incumbent.128 Although, as pointed out by Yamaguchi, this minor office is mentioned only in Sharaf Khān’s chronicle, and “no evidence indicates that a Kurdish amir ever commanded other Kurdish tribes in battles”, it still represents an important, symbolic difference with the policy eventually adopted by the Ottomans, in that, instead of implementing outside control, the Safavids “intended to integrate Kurdish tribes (. . .) through the influence of a particular amir of the same ethnic origin”.129 This would all change with the advent of the most celebrated ruler of the dynasty, Shāh ‘Abbās (r. 996–1038/1588–1629). Set upon suppressing the power of the Qizilbāsh and restoring royal authority, ‘Abbās I embarked in a series of centralising reforms that spelt the end of the wider autonomy enjoyed by many Kurdish houses. Although, in some cases (e.g., the Ardalān), this led to a strengthening of the bonds between the local rulers and the central state, for most of the Kurdish dynasties, this ushered in an era of asymmetrical warfare, forced migrations, plunders and extermination. It is against this dire background that, in 1018–1019/1609–1610, the events at the Fort of Dimdim (Qelayê Dimdim) unfolded, resulting in a massacre of the Birādōst and Mukrī tribes. Subsequently, this led to the very first record of a Kurdish folk story centred around the heroic figure of a patriotic amir fighting against foreign oppression, namely Amīr Khān Birādōst, also known by his surname Khān-i Zarrīnzanda, or “Prince Golden-Hand”. 126 In this very inaccurate work, the chapter on the Kurds only mentions the Ayyubids, in a passage that was possibly taken from the Sharafnāma. It is in the following section, devoted to the Lurs, that the Kurdish amirs are evoked, notably Shams al-Dīn Khān, father of Sharaf Khān, and Hājjī Beg Dumbulī. See Tārīkh-i Qizilbāshān, ed. Mīr Hāshim Muḥāddis (Tehran: Bihnām, 1361sh/1982), 40–44. 127 See Yamaguchi, “Kurdish Policy”, 120; Yamaguchi, “Safavid Legacy”, 136; Alsancakli, “Matrimonial Alliances”, 225–226. 128 Sharaf Khān’s grandfather, Sharaf Khān I, had already been appointed amīr al-umarā’-i Kurdistān after having rallied Shāh Ṭahmāsp in 938/1531–1532. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 425–430, 453–454; Yamaguchi, “Kurdish Policy”, 118–120. 129 See Yamaguchi, “Kurdish Policy”, 118–119.

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“Heretic Persians” and “demonic Kurds”: Patriotic Resistance and Intertextuality in Feqiyê Teyran’s Şerê Dimdim Before discussing the events at Dimdim, and their poetic and folkloric rendition, let us expand a bit on the background of this episode by also delving into the situation of the amirs of Ottoman Kurdistan, which were not, by any means, placed in a better position than their counterparts in Safavid Iran. In the last decades of the 10th/16th century, Anatolia had been successively struck by an environmental and economic crisis,130 and these catastrophes led to anarchy, with the outbreak of an all-out rebellion initiated by roaming bands of disgruntled sekbān (irregular infantrymen) called the Celālī.131 In these adverse circumstances, many an Ottoman Kurdish amir was inclined to lend a listening ear to Shāh ‘Abbās’s concomitant diplomatic overtures,132 and some of these rulers, like Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn Khān (r. 1014–1027/1605–1618), son and successor of Sharaf Khān in Bidlīs, in fact appear to have gone ahead and switched allegiance to the Safavids.133 Due to the situation of Kurdistan as a borderlands, the Kurdish amirs once again acted as key players in the two Ottoman-Safavid wars (1012–1027/1603–1618 and 1032–1049/1623–1639) that unfolded in the first half of the 11th/17th century, while the common people of the region were, for their part, caught in the crossfire of the unsparing conflict. The common people of Kurdistan were, however, no better served by the extended period of peace that followed the signing of the Treaty of Qaṣr-i Shīrīn

130 For an overview of this period, see Suraiya N. Faroqhi, “Crisis and change, 1590–1699”, in An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire. Volume 2, 1600–1914, ed. Halil İnalcık and Donald Quataert (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 416–420. 131 On the Celālī rebellions, see notably Mustafa Akdağ, Celâlî İsyanları (1550–1603) (Ankara: Ankara Üniversitesi Dil ve Tarih-Coğrafya Fakültesi, 1963); William J. Griswold, The Great Anatolian Rebellion, 1000–1020/1591–1611 (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1983); and Baki Tezcan, The Second Ottoman Empire. Political and Social Transformation in the Early Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 132 See a report to that effect by Giorgio Emo, Venetian consul in Aleppo, read to the Venetian Senate on 12 December 1599, and quoted by Guglielmo Berchet, Relazioni dei consoli veneti nella Siria (Turin: Tipografia di G. B. Paravia e comp., 1866), 108. 133 Z̤iyā’ al-Dīn Khān took power shortly after his father’s death, succeeding his uncle Khalaf Beg and his elder brother Shams al-Dīn Khān Abū al-Ma‘ālī. He ruled until 1027/1618, apparently going back and forth between the Ottomans and the Safavids over that period. See Dehqan and Genç, “Kurdish Power Holders”, 150–153; Dehqan and Genç, “Reflections”, 49; Dehqan and Genç, “Why was Sharaf Khān killed?”, 13–14; and Alsancakli, “Le Šarafnāma de Šaraf Xān Bidlīsī”, I, 23–24.

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(1049/1639),134 which put a definitive end to a century and a half of conflict between the two states and allowed the Porte to significantly curb the power of the Kurdish amirs without risking losing these precious allies to the Safavid archenemy. In this regard, the Ḳānūn-nāme-yi Sulṭānī, an Ottoman naṣīḥatnāma (“book of counsel”) written by ‘Azīz Efendi, and dated 1042/1632–1633,135 shortly after “the third successive failure on the part of the Ottoman armies to recapture Baghdād”,136 gives us crucial information on the precarious situation of the amirs of Kurdistan, notably identifying, as the primary threat facing them, the abuses of authority they endured at the hands of the beylerbeyi appointed by the Porte. In this text, composed to the attention of the Ottoman sultan Murād IV (r. 1032– 1049/1623–1640), ‘Azīz Efendī relates that, although the governors of Kurdistan had performed great deeds in the service of the house of ‘Osmān at the time of Ismā‘īl I’s offensive on the region of Diyārbakr, for which they were rewarded by being “freed from all obligation to pay the extraordinary impositions (tekâlif), and autonomy was granted to them over their ancestral hearth lands (odjak) and homes (yurt)”,137 their situation had, “when campaigns were undertaken in the direction of Hungary (instead of Iran)”,138 deeply deteriorated, as all of the Kurdish governors became subject to oppression under the tyrannical hand of the provincial governors (. . .) so that while under the terms of the treaty agreements (ahidnâme) granted by the two noble Sultans (i.e., Selim I and Süleyman I), they had been given autonomy in selection and dismissal of their chiefs and assignment of their offices to outsiders was a matter beyond the realm of possibility, the provincial governors through their avarice dismissed a part of them from office while executing others without reason.139

134 Although it put an end to the Ottoman-Safavid conflict, the signature of this treaty did not signify the establishment of a fixed frontier between the two states. On this question, see notably Sabri Ateş, “Treaty of Zohab, 1639: Foundational Myth or Foundational Document?”, Iranian Studies 52/3–4 (2019): 397–423. 135 On ‘Azīz Efendi and his career, see Rhoads Murphey in ‘Azîz Efendi, Kanûn-nâme-i sultânî, vii–ix. 136 See Murphey in ‘Azîz Efendi, Kanûn-nâme-i sultânî, viii. 137 See ‘Azîz Efendi, Kanûn-nâme-i sultânî, 13 (translation), 34 (Turkish text). 138 This is a reference to the Hungarian campaigns started by Murād III in 1001/1593, and continued by his successors, Meḥmed III (r. 1003–1012/1595–1603) and Aḥmed I (r. 1012–1026/1603–1617), until 1015/1606. During this period, the situation of the amirs of Kurdistan indeed seems to have been dire, and prominent figures like Sharaf Khān and Ḥusayn Jānbulād, governor of Kilīs, were in fact murdered in conflicts with the Porte. See Alsancakli, “Le Šarafnāma de Šaraf Xān Bidlīsī”, I, 232–255. 139 See ‘Azîz Efendi, Kanûn-nâme-i sultânî, 14–15 (translation), 35 (Turkish text).

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Considering this state of affairs as a primary cause for some of the setbacks faced by the Ottomans against the Safavids,140 ‘Azīz Efendi then advises the Sultan to act decisively in favour of returning the Kurdish amirs to their former glory, mainly by reaffirming their autonomous status, and reining in the abuses committed by the beylerbeyi.141 Unfortunately for the amirs of Kurdistan this advice fell on deaf ears, and they remained increasingly at odds with the local representatives of the Porte throughout the century, a fact that is, for example, manifest in the well-documented offensive led by Van beylerbeyi Melek Aḥmed Paşa against the governor of Bidlīs Abdāl Khān, Sharaf Khān’s grandson, in 1065/1655.142 Such was, broadly speaking, the context for the episode of the siege of Dimdim, which although it ended in a crushing defeat for the defenders of the fortress, was quickly turned by Kurdish dengbêj and çîrokbêj into a patriotic tale of Kurdish resistance against foreign encroachments. Orally transmitted by bards and balladeers through generations, this folk epic has come down to us in many different versions, some of which were, from the early 20th century onwards, recorded by Orientalists and folklorists.143 However, in addition to these later oral recensions, there is also a written version of the story composed by the well-known classical poet Feqiyê Teyran (d. 1041/1632), a contemporary of the events.144 Written roughly at the same time as the Safavid chronicles depicting the siege, most notably Iskandar Beg Turkmān’s Tārīkh-i ‘ālam-ārā-yi ‘Abbāsī (c. 1038/1628–1629), Feqiyê Teyran’s text unsurprisingly presents us with a perspective markedly different from these official Iranian histories. In addition to genre differences due to the poetical nature of Feqiyê Teyran’s work, on the one hand, and the historical character of the books by Iskandar Beg

140 See ‘Azîz Efendi, Kanûn-nâme-i sultânî, 15 (translation), 36 (Turkish text). 141 See ‘Azîz Efendi, Kanûn-nâme-i sultânî, 15–18 (translation), 36–38 (Turkish text). 142 The particulars of the conflict were recorded by Evliyā (d. ca. 1094/1683) Çelebi, who was Melek Aḥmed Paşa’s secretary at the time, in the lengthy discussion of his sojourns in Bidlīs found in the Seyāḥatnāme, and edited by Robert Dankoff (see Evliya, Evliya Çelebi in Bitlis). 143 On these documented versions of the epic, see the useful overview given by Christine Allison, “Kurdish Oral Literature”, in A History of Persian Literature. Volume XVIII. Oral Literature of Iranian Languages. Kurdish, Pashto, Balochi, Ossetic, Persian and Tajik, ed. Philip G. Kreyenbroek and Ulrich Marzolph (London: I.B. Tauris, 2010), 56–61. 144 Feqiyê Teyran’s text has come down to us through an anthology of Kurdish poems (Mecmû‘eyê xezeliyatê kurmancî) kept at the National Library of Russia (Saint Petersburg), call number Kurd 26 in the Auguste Jaba collection; see Yakup Aykaç, “Danasîn û tewsîfa mecmû‘eyên helbestan di koleksiyona Aleksandre Jaba de”, Kurdiyat 4 (2021): 30–35; Margarita B. Rudenko, Opisanie kurdskikh rukopiseĭ leningradskikh sobraniĭ (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo vostochnoĭ literatury, 1961), 36–37. In this article, I will use the published edition by M. Xalid Sadînî; see Feqiyê Teyran, Jiyan, berhem û helbestên wî, ed. M. Xalid Sadinî (Istanbul: Nûbihar, 2014).

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and his peers, on the other, this difference in perspective is most evident in the depiction of the story’s main Kurdish protagonists, namely Amīr Khān Birādōst (d.  1019/1610), called Amīr Khān Chulāq, Amīr Khān Aqṭa‘, or Amīr Khān-i Kurd by the Persian chroniclers, and simply Khān, Amīr Khān, or Khān-i Zarrīnzanda (“Prince Golden-Hand”) by Feqiyê Teyran, and Khān Abdāl (d.  1019/1610), senior member of the Mukrī ruling house, who had rebelled against Shāh ‘Abbās when his nephew Qubād Khān (d. 1019/1610) had been appointed chief of the tribal confederation, and was given asylum in the fort of Dimdim by Amīr Khān. As for the principal Safavid figures involved in the siege, we can mention the grand-vizier I‘timād al-Dawla Ḥātim Beg Urdūbādī (d. 1019/1610), sent by ‘Abbās to oversee the siege, and the Qizilbāsh amirs Ḥasan Khān Ustājlū (d. 1034/1624–1625), governor (bēglerbēgī) of Hamadān, and Pīr Būdāq Khān (d. 1025/1616–1617), governor of Tabriz. Upon reading the Iranian chronicles, the conflict between Amīr Khān and the Safavid state appears quite straightforward: by reconstructing the ancient fort of Dimdim, located on an impregnable mountaintop in the Targawar district, 18 kilometres to the southwest of Urmiya, and acting with hostility towards the combined Qizilbāsh-Jalālī force passing through his territory on their way to plunder the emirates of Bāna and the Maḥmūdī, in Ottoman Kurdistan,145 Amīr Khān, amir of the Birādōst,146 145 Not only did Amīr Khān refuse to take part in the expedition, as he had been ordered to, but his Birādōst tribesmen shot and killed two of the Celālī, before he shut himself in the fort. See Faz̤lī Beg Khuzānī Iṣfāhānī, Afz̤al al-tavārīkh, ed. Kioumars Ghereghlou (Cambridge: Gibb Memorial Trust, 2015), I, 508–510, 514–516; also Iskandar Beg Turkmān, Tārīkh-i ‘ālam-ārā-yi ‘Abbāsī, ed. Īraj Afshār (Iṣfahān: Kitābfurūshī, 1334sh/1956), II, 793–795; translated into English as Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, transl. Roger M. Savory (Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press, 1978), II, 992–993. 146 As a Guran tribe claiming descent from the prestigious Ḥasanwayhid dynasty, the Birādōst had rallied the Ottomans after the battle of Chāldirān, much like other Kurdish amirs, under the leadership of then-ruler Ghāzī Qirān. Yet, in the early 11th/17th century, as a growing discontent mounted among the commanders of Ottoman Kurdistan, and as Shāh ‘Abbās was, as we have seen, trying to win them back over to the Safavid cause, Amīr Khān Birādōst was one of the more prominent amirs to switch sides, developing a particular relationship with the Shāh. Erstwhile known as Amīr Khān Chulāq, after losing a forearm in the service of ‘Umar Beg, ḥākim of Suhrān, the Birādōst ruler was gifted a golden hand by Shāh ‘Abbās, which earned him the Kurdish nickname of Khān-i Lapzarrīn (“Prince Golden-Hand”), or Khān-i Zarrīnzanda. On the Birādōst, see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 296–300; and, on the historical Dimdim, Cafer Açar and Ercan Gümüş, “XVII. Yüzyıl Başlarında Safevi-Bradosti İlişkileri ve Dımdım Kalesi Kuşatması”, Tarih Okulu Dergisi 35 (2018): 641–668; also Thomas Bois, “La Forteresse de Dimdim ou l’épopée héroïque de Khan-Au-Bras-d’or”, Journal of Kurdish Studies 5 (2003–2004): 1–18. The practice of replacing an amputated forearm with a golden prosthesis seems to have been quite common for high-ranking military commanders, and, among the Kurds alone, there were other “golden-hand princes” before Amīr Khān Birādōst, like the Ḥakkārī amir Asad al-Dīn Zarrīnchang, and Khālid Beg b. Shāh Suwār Beg Pāzūkī, both active in the late 9th/15th-early 10th/16th century. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 92–93, 329.

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had followed the way of “sedition and revolt”,147 “resorting to cunning and treachery”,148 and, in short, had “launch[ed] an insurrection” against the Shah.149 “Remain[ing] stubbornly rebellious”,150 and “concealing his trickery and guile under a cloak of loyal submission”,151 he had led his bunch of “rebels”,152 a “treacherous crowd”,153 to barricade themselves in the castle, which was finally taken in Rabī‘ II 1019/July 1610, after six months of siege, an event followed by the murder, in chaotic circumstances, of Amīr Khān, Khān Abdāl, and most of their men, as well as a general massacre of the Mukrī tribe, including Qubād Khān, targeted for his failure to abide by the Shāh’s call to fight against his uncle. As made plain by this “medley” of quotations from Iskandar Beg’s Tārīkh-i ‘ālamārā-yi ‘Abbāsī,154 Faz̤lī Beg Khūzānī Iṣfahānī’s Afz̤al al-tavārīkh,155 Jalāl-i Munajjim Yazdī’s Tārīkh-i ‘Abbāsī,156 and Mirzā Beg Junābādī’s Rawz̤at al-Ṣafaviyya,157 there is no significant variation in the Safavid chroniclers’ treatment of the episode— although the accounts by Iskandar Beg and Faz̤lī Beg are the most detailed and comprehensive. All the Safavid authors adopt, in their reports of the story, an explicitly anti-Kurdish tone, in spite of the major role played by some Kurdish tribes, like the Pāzūkī, in the successful siege of the fortress.158 In addition to a general indictment of the “perfidious Kurds”159 as “faithless oath-breakers”,160 the chroniclers single out the Kurdish leaders as especially worthy of criticism: Iskandar Beg describes

147 Fasād va ṭughyān, kufrān va tughyān; see Mirzā Beg Ḥasan b. Ḥusaynī Junābādī, Rawz̤at al-Ṣafaviyya, ed. Ghulām-Riz̤ā Ṭabāṭabā’ī Majd (Tehran: Binyād-i mawqūfāt-i Doktor Maḥmūd Afshār, 1378sh/1999–2000), 806; Faz̤lī Beg, Afz̤al al-tavārīkh, II, 539. 148 [Amīr Khān] bāzandagī va ghadr pīsh āvarda; Faz̤lī Beg, Afz̤al al-tavārīkh, I, 515. 149 Dam az bāghī-gīrī zad; Mullā Jalāl al-Dīn Munajjim, Tārīkh-i ‘Abbāsī yā Rūznāma-yi Mullā Jalāl, ed. Sayfullāh Vaḥīd Niyā (Tehran: Intishārāt-i Vaḥīd, 1366sh/1987–1988), 400. 150 Dar khilāf va iṣyān iṣrār namūd; Iskandar Beg, Tārīkh-i ‘ālam-ārā-yi ‘Abbāsī, II, 794; Eskandar Beg, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, II, 992. 151 Amīr Khān az makr va ḥiyal ẓāhir-i khūd rā bi tāj u ḥāj va libās-i ikhlāṣ-i ghulāmī ārāsta; Iskandar Beg, Tārīkh-i ‘ālam-ārā-yi ‘Abbāsī, II, 795; Eskandar Beg, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, II, 994. 152 Jamā‘at-i bāghī-tāghī; Iskandar Beg, Tārīkh-i ‘ālam-ārā-yi ‘Abbāsī, II, 810; Eskandar Beg, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, II, 1014. 153 Ān ṭabaqa-yi ghadār; Iskandar Beg, Tārīkh-i ‘ālam-ārā-yi ‘Abbāsī, II, 811; Eskandar Beg, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, II, 1014. 154 See Iskandar Beg, Tārīkh-i ‘ālam-ārā-yi ‘Abbāsī, II, 791–815; Eskandar Beg, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, II, 989–1019. 155 See Faz̤lī Beg, Afz̤al al-tavārīkh, I, 508–510, 514–516, 519–526, II, 532–536, 539–542. 156 See Mullā Jalāl, Tārīkh-i ‘Abbāsī, 399–409. 157 See Mīrzā Beg, Rawz̤at al-Ṣafaviyya, 806–820. 158 On the Pāzūkī, see supra, note 77. 159 Akrād-i bad-nihād; Faz̤lī Beg, Afz̤al al-tavārīkh, II, 535. 160 Kurdān-i bī-aymān-i sist-paymān; Faz̤lī Beg, Afz̤al al-tavārīkh, I, 515.

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the Kurdish amirs as counting “among the wilder specimens of the human race”,161 while, according to Faz̤lī Beg, “the elders and commanders of the Kurds were sowers of sedition”162—yet an unsurprising fact given “the seditious and evil nature of the Kurds”.163 Such expressions of contempt towards the Kurds were, of course, commonplace in early modern Ottoman and Persian literature,164 and, with that in mind, we should perhaps not read too much into the Safavid historians’ use of such stereotypical phraseology to describe the conflict. After all, Sharaf Khān himself, influenced as he was by his Safavid education, liberally uses terms like “demonic Kurds” (Akrād-i dīv-nahād) in the Sharafnāma.165 Conversely, Feqiyê Teyran takes, in his poem comprising of sixty-seven distiches, a decidedly pro-Kurdish stance, all the while showing no love lost for the Iranian besiegers. Largely lackadaisical in his attention to historical detail, the Kurdish poet presents the Persians as a formless mass, not mentioning any of the Safavid commanders—save for a reference in passing to the “Shah’s khalīfa” and the Qurchī —166 and describing the Iranians with the utmost contempt: the ‘Ecem, he writes, are “heretics” and “pigs” (kafir, beraz), and are, as a result, untrustworthy (‘Ecem nekin emanan).167 Remarkably, the Kurdish poet also finds a way to lambaste the Ottomans, who, instead of coming to the aid of their Sunni brethren, are nowhere to be seen, a recurrent complaint in the latter part of the text (Qet Rom nebû diyar e, Xeber nehat ji Romê).168 While, in the Safavid chronicles, the conflict’s religious aspect is reduced to a mention of Amīr Khān’s evacuation to Dimdim of the sādāt and shaykhs of Urmiya, and to justification of the general massacre of the (Sunni) Mukrī tribesmen that happened after the siege, Feqiyê Teyran, an Ottoman Sunni Kurd, instead frames the whole story as a struggle between the faithful and the heretics, and a moral opposition of good versus evil. Thus, in contrast with the heretical Persians, the Kurds are shown as intrepid

161 Vaḥshī-ṣifatān-i ṭavāyif-i insān and; Iskandar Beg, Tārīkh-i ‘ālam-ārā-yi ‘Abbāsī, II, 792; Eskandar Beg, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, II, 990. 162 Rīsh-safīdān va sarkhaylān-i kurd ki māya-yi fasād būdand; Faz̤lī Beg, Afz̤al al-tavārīkh, II, 539. 163 Chinānchi shīva-yi nifāq va bad-nihādī-yi Akrād ast; Iskandar Beg, Tārīkh-i ‘ālam-ārā-yi ‘Abbāsī, II, 814; Eskandar Beg, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great, II, 1019. 164 See, for example, these few quotations from Ottoman authors who wrote about the Kurds: Ekrâd-ı bed-nihad; bütün kötülükler Kürtlerdedir; İbn-i Nuh, Van tarihi, ed. Zeki Tekin (Van: Ahenk yayınevi, 2003), 66; Ekrâd-ı nâ-pâk; Ekrâd-ı ifrit-nejâd ve dîv-nihâd; Ta‘lîkî-Zâde Mehmed Subhî, “Tebrîziyye (Metin Transkripsyonu, Eser ve Bilgilerin Değerlendirmesi, Yazar Hakkında İnceleme)”, ed. Bülent Özkuzugüdenli (PhD dissertation, Marmara Üniversitesi, 2005), 86, 88. 165 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 13, 17, 224, 240, 278, 283, 311, 324. 166 See Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 393–394, bayts 46–50. 167 See Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 385, bayt 11, 386, bayts 14, 17, 388, bayt 25, 393, bayts 45–46, and 396, bayt 61. 168 See Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 389, bayts 27–29.

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and valorous defenders of faith and honour (xwoşmêr, şahbaz),169 following the way of the Prophet and the Rightly Guided Caliphs (li ser xatira Ebû Bekir, li ser xatira ‘Umar, di rêya Pêxember),170 and ready to die for a just cause, even when confronted with overwhelming odds. In this context, the stress put on the absence of Ottoman support for the Kurds can be read not only as a literary motif, but also as a subtle indictment of the failure, or unwillingness, of the Porte to act in defence of oppressed Sunni Muslims. This mirage of a help is also part and parcel of the “lost cause” motif, as another important way in which Feqiyê Teyran constructs, in his poem, the Dimdim narrative. The author notably emphasises this by greatly reducing the timeline of the story, which takes place during the last three days of the siege, as Amīr Khān Birādōst and Khān Abdāl Mukrī, abandoned by their allies and cornered by merciless assailants, find themselves in a desperate situation. Hence, the poem begins with a night-time discourse by Amīr Khān to his men, in which he exclaims: “‘Whoever is faithful, may they come to battle tomorrow! For tomorrow is a day of war, that shall feel like the end of times’”, to which his men, “putting their hands over their chests”, reply by crying: “‘Our head is for the Khān!’”171 The following day, the Kurdish warriors, described as “lions of men” (şêremerdan), fulfil their oath and storm out of the fort in an attempt to break the siege. Fighting like it is the Day of Judgment (axirzemanî), “all those who had made that promise [then fall] martyr and [leave] the Earth”.172 Thus is the world engulfed in darkness and, with the end of this second day, the poet introduces the second hero of the story, Khān Abdāl Mukrī. Then comes the dawn of the third day and, with it, the Kurdish warriors’ last sortie, a desperate battle in which Amīr Khān is killed, along with his son and nephew, while Khān Abdāl falls in a cry of prayer for the Prophet (selewat-i Muhammed). The story, however, does not end with the death of its main protagonists, as the Persian soldiers then set their eyes upon the Birādōst women, who had remained in the fort, wishing to take “the most beautiful among them” as captives.173 At this point, the Khan’s daughter, lighting a match under Dimdim’s main depot of ammunition, has the whole fortress blown up, with most of the attackers still inside it.174 By doing so, she affords justice an untimely yet ultimate triumph, ensuring that her kinsmen did not die in vain.

169 See Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 386, bayt 17. 170 See Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 383–384, bayts 3–4, also 394, bayts 53–54. 171 Go: her çi bi îman e / Subhê wer’ne meydan e / Subhê roja şeran e / Bik’ne axir zeman e / Dest-i li sîngan dane / Serê me d’qebza Xan e. See Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 384–385, bayts 8–9. 172 Di qebza Xan e l’meydan / Bif’kir’ne şêremerdan / Hem’yan ku ev xeber dan / Şehîd bûn dinyê berdan. See Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 385, bayt 10. 173 See Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 396, bayt 61. 174 See Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 396.

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Good has, in the end, won over evil, though by the faithful’s demise. With this exemplary morale, Feqiyê Teyran ends his poem in a prayer for the prophets, the saints, and the Khan, who is now seemingly elevated to their rank. In Feqiyê Teyran’s rendition, then, the story of Dimdim is that of a saintly, patriotic Kurdish hero who, confronted by foreign and barbaric heathens, gives up his life in a struggle for honour and justice. In its general outline, this tale thus bears many similarities with the account of Malik Shams al-Dīn Walī of Bidlīs and his resistance against “Mad Iskandar” Qarāqūyunlū, as can be reconstructed from the Sharafnāma. Thence we can conclude that there existed, in the early modern era, a particular type of Kurdish folk story based on such characteristics, and traces of another similar tale can actually be found in Feqiyê Teyran’s Şerê Dimdim itself, by the manner in which the author introduces Khān Abdāl Mukrī, the second protagonist. In this remarkable passage, Khān Abdāl presents himself by saying: I am a fighter for the Prophet’s creed A lion of the Mukrī’s breed I am Khān Abdāl of the Bukhtī Named after his fame and glory In Bukhtān this name was glorious My father found it auspicious And so, he did give that name to me That is how my name came to be.”175

We thus learn that Khān Abdāl Mukrī was—at least, according to Feqiyê Teyran’s text— named after another illustrious Kurdish historical figure, Khān Abdāl Bukhtī. Nowhere in the poem does Feqiyê Teyran explain who this Khān Abdāl Bukhtī was, as he obviously expected his readers to know him, in line with the assertion that the man’s name was widely circulated in Bukhtān, and perhaps elsewhere in Kurdistan. This leads us to think that there were also folk stories circulating about this character at this time, and a closer look at the historical Khān Abdāl Bukhtī’s eventful story presents us with yet another narrative involving the unjust martyrdom of a Kurdish hero at the hands of foreign oppressors. This story is recounted at length in an Ottoman chronicle, Ferīdūn Bey’s Nüzhet-i Esrārü’l-Aḫyār der-Aḫbār-ı Sefer-i 175 Ez j’xîreta Nebî me / Ez şêrekî mukrî me / Xan Ebdalê bohtî me / Ez jî bi navê vî me / Bohtan ev nav gerande / Babim bihîst hebande / Îna li min nihande / B’vî navî ez jê xwende; see Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 389, bayts 30–31. I must here disagree with Perwîz Cîhanî, who has seen in this bayt a self-reference by the author, thus concluding that Khān Abdāl was the name of the poet, rather than that of a character in the story. This then led him to extrapolate that Feqiyê Teyran was, in fact, not the author of Şerê Dimdim. See Perwîz Cîhanî, “Beyta ‘Kela Dimdimê’”, Zarema. Kovara rexne û teoriyê, 4 July 2020. Available online at http://blog.kovarazarema.com/1632-2 (last accessed 20 November 2022).

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Sigetvar,176 and in the Sharafnāma, though Sharaf Khān, far from treating Khān Abdāl as a hero, rather sees him as a man “inspired by the demon of haughtiness”, in a perspective congruent with that of his Ottoman contemporary.177 Khān Abdāl was the son of Nāṣir Beg, a ruler who, during the reign of Süleymān I, had been governing the districts (sancak) of Ṭūr and Haytam, while his brother Badr Beg was governor of the emirate of Jazīra. Located to the west of that city, on the way to Mardīn, the districts of Ṭūr and Haytam had formerly been a part of the Jazīra emirate, and upon Nāṣir Beg’s death, Badr Beg decided, with the assent of the Porte, to attach these districts once more to his estate. This did not sit well with his nephew Khān Abdāl, who travelled to Selīm II’s court, then assembled in Edirne, to try and win back his rights to both districts, even eyeing the governorship of Jazīra. However, Selīm II’s grand-vizier Soḳollu Meḥmed Paşa (d. 987/1579) was, in Sharaf Khān’s words, a “friend” (dūst) of Badr Beg, and he thus determined to have Khān Abdāl put in jail, sending Meḥmed Agha, the court’s çavuşbaşı (chief messenger), to apprehend him. Meḥmed Agha met Khān Abdāl in Edirne’s Üç Şerefeli Camii, where the Bukhtī chief was praying with his retinue; however, upon seeing the çavuşbaşı, Khān Abdāl’s followers feared for their leader’s life and one of them, a man named Shaykh-i Shaykhān (“Shaykh of shaykhs”) killed Meḥmed Agha by plunging a dagger in his back. The Kurds then dispersed in search for hiding places in the city, but they were captured, brought back to the divan and executed: according to Sharaf Khān, on that day, about a hundred noblemen (a‘yān) from Jazīra perished alongside Khān Abdāl. The people of Jazīra were understandably moved by this ominous event, and this is probably the reason why Khān Abdāl was, as can be gathered from Feqiyê Teyran’s text, turned into a folk hero, a patriotic pious Kurdish leader cruelly murdered by the order of a foreign tyrant. It is unknown if Khān Abdāl’s story circulated outside of the Jazīra principality, and if it ever reached the Mukrī heartlands, about 300 kms to the east. This is entirely possible, as local versions of more well-known 176 See Feridun Bey, Nüzhet-i Esrârü’l-Ahyâr der-Ahbâr-ı Sefer-i Sigetvar. Sultan Süleyman’ın Son Seferi, ed. H. Ahmet Arslantürk and Günhan Börekçi (Istanbul: Zeytinburnu Belediyesi Kültür Yayınları, 2012), 310–315. Composed in 976/1569, this book is devoted to the conquest of the fortress of Szigetvár, in present-day Hungary, by Süleymān I in 974/1566, and to the first years of rule of his successor, sultan Selīm II. It is the first work by Ferīdūn Bey, better known as the author of the Münşe’ātü’s-selāṭīn, a compilation of official correspondence and documents. On Ferīdūn Bey’s life and career, see Nicolas Vatin, “Feridun Bey”, Encyclopædia of Islam – Three 2014-2, edited by Kate Fleet, Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas and Everett Rowson (Leiden: Brill, 2014); also H. Ahmet Arslantürk and Günhan Börekçi in Feridun Bey, Nüzhet-i Esrârü’l-Ahyâr, 16–27. 177 Balki dīv-i ghurūr sawdā-yi ḥikūmat-i Jazīra dar kākh-i dimāgh-i ū nihāda; see Scheref, ScherefNameh, I, 133–135. For a comparison of the story in both chronicles, see Yavuz Aykan, “Cinler, Devler ve Siyaset: Feridun Bey’in Han Abdal Hikâyesi”, Kürt Tarihi 13 (2014): 53–59.

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Kurdish epics, like Mem û Zîn, have been recorded in the Mukrī region.178 It must be noted, however, that Feqiyê Teyran had spent a good part of his career in Jazīra, perhaps composing his Şerê Dimdim there as well,179 and the idea that Khān Abdāl Mukrī’s name was derived from the figure of Khān Abdāl Bukhtī is, perhaps, an invention by the poet, wishing to further engage his Jazīra-based audience with the story.180 Whatever the case, it seems that folk stories like that of Dimdim also circulated on the persona of Khān Abdāl Bukhtī, and that Feqiyê Teyran felt it would be interesting to create a connection between both heroes through his narrative, in an display of intertextuality.181 The Sharafnāma presents us with some further evidence on the existence of an established tradition of Kurdish oral poetry celebrating the deeds of heroic historical figures,182 with Sharaf Khān noting that Kurdish poets created qaṣīdas (panegyric poems) in honour of Pīr Būdāq b. Amīr Abdāl, amir of the Bābān, an illustrious ruler

178 For an example of an oral version of Mem û Zîn collected among the Mukrī, in Sāwuj Bulāgh in 1903, see Oskar Mann, Die Mundart der Mukri-Kurden (Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1906–1909), I, 24–81, II, 40–135, in which it is preceded by a version of the epic of Dimdim. The text was also translated into English by Michael Lewisohn Chyet, “‘And a Thornbush Sprang up between them’: Studies on Mem u Zin, a Kurdish Romance” (PhD Dissertation, University of California at Berkeley, 1991), II, 86–175. 179 Feqiyê Teyran’s presence in Jazīra can be surmised from a poem he wrote with his contemporary Melayê Cizîrî in 1031/1621–1622. In his edition of Feqiyê Teyran’s works, M. Xalid Sadinî claims that “Feqiyê Teyran lived for a long time in the region of Botan, and also studied in Cizîr. It is not unthinkable that he and Melayê Cizîrî would have studied together in a madrasa in Cizîr.” See M. Xalid Sadinî in Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 17, 51; also, on Feqiyê Teyran’s life and career, David Neil MacKenzie, “Malâ-ê Jizrî and Faqî Tayrân”, in Yādnāma-yi Īrānī-yi Minorsky, eds. Mujtabā Mīnovī and Īraj Afshār (Tehran, 1348sh/1969), 125–130; and Abdurrahman Adak, Yusuf Baluken, Hayrullah Acar, “Gora Feqiyê Teyran”, Nûbihar Akademî 1/1 (2014): 111–120. 180 In the versions recorded in the 19th and 20th centuries, the geographical background of the story is frequently changed by dengbêjs for the same purpose. 181 This connection is not entirely incidental, as Khān Abdāl then stresses how he must live up to his namesake’s bravery, which allows the reader to get a grasp of Khān Abdāl’s character in a brief and striking way. Feqiyê Teyran has him saying: “Somebody bearing that name / He must be like Khān Abdāl / It is a shame for him to be weak / For his khatm to be incomplete / If my khatm remains incomplete / By the 30 juz’ of the Qur’an / May my name be unlawful to me / From here onto Damascus” (Kesê ku lê ev nav bî / Îlla ku Xan Ebdal bî / Şerme ku ew zirav bî / Xetma wî ne timam bî / Xetmê nekin temam e / Bi sih cuz û kelam e / Ji vir heta Şam e / Ev nav li min heram e; see Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 390, bayts 32–33). The act of completing the recitation of the Qur’an is called khatm al-Qur’ān, and during the month of Ramadan, the entire Qur’an is recited at the rhythm of one juz’ a night. 182 There were also amirs who composed poetry themselves, like, for example, Ya‘qūb Beg b. Muḥammad Beg (d. 987/1578–1579), ruler of the Zirqī Kurds, mentioned in passing by Sharaf Khān (see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 240).

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who, having conquered parts of the principalities of most of his neighbours, namely the Suhrān, Mukrī, Zarzā, and Ardalān Kurds, was ultimately killed during a hunting party by Mīr Sayyidī b. Shāh ‘Alī, amir of the Suhrān.183 In addition to his outstanding character as a successful military commander and politician, the dramatic way in which Pīr Būdāq was killed, as well as the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, the last ruler of the original line of the Bābān,184 accumulate to make for a particularly thrilling story which, once again, ends with the hero’s unjust and untimely death: this time, however, at the hands of another Kurdish chief. The common elements we find in the stories of Malik Shams al-Dīn of Bidlīs, Pīr Būdāq of the Bāban, Khān Abdāl Bukhtī, and Amīr Khān Birādōst,185 allow us to discern the contours of what might be called a “Kurdish ethos” based on bravery, justice, and morality in the face of an unfair and bitter world. These are all elements that also find an echo in the wider perspective of Persian literature and Islamic adab. The gallant feats of these Kurdish heroes were told at the divans of the amirs of Kurdistan, who were the patrons of these poets, but their tragic fate must also have found a wider resonating echo in the humble gatherings of village şevbihêrks (nocturnal gatherings), among audiences accustomed to the hardships of tribal life.186 In this way, the “Kurdish ethos” present in these stories transcends class experience to become a form of “being Kurdish”, or kurdayetî,187 and this type of oral literature was then, perhaps, one of the rare cultural products uniting all sections of the Kurdish ethnos around common values shared by the rich and powerful amirs and the destitute villagers and nomads alike.

183 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 280–282. 184 Having no children, Pīr Būdāq Beg was succeeded by his nephew, Būdāq b. Rustam, who only ruled for two years before being side-lined. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 282. 185 To that list one can add the Kurdish amīra (princess) Khānzād of Suhrān, on which see Se‘îdî ‘Osman Herutî, Xanzadî Soran û edebî zarekî le du twêjînewey mêjûyî da (saxkirdinewey kesayetî Xanzad be pêy çawe rresenekan) (Hewlêr: Çapxaney Zankoy Selaheddîn, 2018). 186 The 19th-century Kurdish scholar Mela Mehmûdê Bayezîdî thus remarks that “the story of the siege of Dimdim is quite famous in Kurdistan. (. . .) Most Kurds sing this epic at assemblies and lament, cry and pray for the martyrs of the Dimdim fortress” (ev qeziya şerê Kela Dimdim qewî meşhûr û me’rûf e di Kurdistanê da. (. . .) Ekserê Kurdan wê destanê di meclîsan da dixwînin û jiboyê şehîdêd Kela Dimdimê heyf dixwen û digirîn û duayê dikin). See Mela Mehmûdê Bazîdî, Cami’eya risaleyan û hikayetan bi zimanê kurmancî, ed. Ziya Avcı (Istanbul: Weşanên Lîs, 2010), 117, quoted by Yaşar Kaplan, “Destana Kela Dimdim û Xanê Lepzêrîn (lêkolîneke edebî û dîrokî)” (MA dissertation, Zanîngeha Yûzûncû Yilê, 2015), 5. 187 Though kurdayetî is a modern term, our sources feature expressions used to refer to a similar concept, for example the word kurdewarî, found in Ehmedê Xanî’s Mem û Zîn, or Sharaf Khān’s discussion of the “Kurdish way” (āda-yi kurdāna) in the Sharafnāma. See Ehmedê Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 286, bayt 357; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 383.

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Kurdayetî Revisited by a Mountaineer Scholar and Poet: Ehmedê Xanî’s Mem û Zîn as a Critique of the Kurdish Elite There is no such appeal to a global sense of kurdayetî as a set of moral and cultural values shared by all Kurds in Ehmedê Xanî’s Mem û Zîn. To the contrary, much like in the Sharafnāma by Sharaf Khān, Xanî’s classical mathnavī epic, universally regarded as the greatest work of Kurdish literature ever produced, depicts a society deeply crosscut by social divisions and class strata, albeit from a perspective markedly at odds with that adopted by the amir of Bidlīs. Ehmedê Xanî composed Mem û Zîn in 1105/1693–1694, at the end of a century which can, without quandary, be called the apex of Kurdish classical literature. Throughout this period, Persian, as an idiom increasingly foreign to the ruling class of Ottoman Kurdistan, was gradually replaced by Turkish as the language of administration and correspondence at the courts of the various Kurdish emirates,188 while in the madrasa milieu, where Turkish could never appropriately fill the void left by the “second sacred language of Islam”,189 there started developing a written literature in Kurdish produced by shaykhs and ulama, which comprised mostly of mystical poetry and didactical religious texts.190 Mem û Zîn is first and foremost a story of love, both worldly and transcendental, aspects of the work which, due to an overbearing focus on its more political elements, have sadly been neglected.191 Sections 5 to 7 of the text, constituting the book’s sebeb-i telîf (reason for writing),192 provide Ehmedê Xanî with an opportunity to comment on the state of Kurdish society at the time of its writing, much in

188 On this evolution, see Sacha Alsancakli, “Historiography and language in 17th-century Ottoman Kurdistan: A study of two Turkish translations of the Sharafnāma”, Kurdish Studies 6/2 (2018): 171–196. 189 See Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, “Remarques sur le persan, seconde langue sacrée de l’islam”, AION: Annali dell’Università degli studi di Napoli “L’Orientale” 66/1–4 (2006): 69–82. 190 See Martin van Bruinessen, “Kurdistan in the 16th and 17th centuries, as reflected in Evliya Çelebi’s Seyahatname”, The Journal of Kurdish Studies 3 (2000): 1–11; Michiel Leezenberg, “Elî Teremaxî and the Vernacularization of Medrese Learning in Kurdistan”, Iranian Studies 47/5 (2014): 713–733; Michiel Leezenberg, “The Vernacular Revolution: Reclaiming Early Modern Grammatical Traditions in the Ottoman Empire”, History of Humanities 1/2 (2016): 251–275; M. Nesim Doru, “Osmanlı-Kürt İlişkileri Bağlamında Kürt Medrese ve Tekkelerinde İlmi Faaliyetler”, in Osmanlı Devleti ve Kürtler, ed. İbrahim Özcoşar and Abbas Vali (Istanbul: Kitap yayınevi, 2017), 241–261; also Alsancakli, “Historiography and language”, 186–191. 191 A notable exception is constituted by Izzaddin Mustafa Rasul, Aḥmadī Khānī 1650–1707: shā‘iran wa mufakkiran faylasūfan wa mutaṣawwif (Baghdad: Maṭba‘at al-Ḥawādith, 1979). 192 See Ehmedê Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 197–288.

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the same way as had been done by Sharaf Khān in the Sharafnāma’s muqaddima at the turn of the 11th/17th century. This allows us to compare the vision of the Kurds put forth by the two authors, who, in addition to having lived a century or so apart, also wrote from different vantage points that informed their contrasted perspectives on society and politics. Thus, in the Sharafnāma, Sharaf Khān presents us with a romanticised view of tribal Kurdish society, describing its members as proud, warlike and, ultimately, reckless individuals, and he mostly ignores the “subaltern” sectors of the Kurdish population, such as the ra‘āyā (non-tribal peasants),193 and even more so women whose role in politics is either shunned or overlooked.194 It is clear from the outset that we should not expect to read a history of the common people in Bidlīsī’s Kurdish chronicle, and it seems that, for its author, any notion of “ethnic solidarity” among the Kurds, if it ever existed, certainly only involved the amirs and tribesmen, excluding the non-tribal population of Kurdistan. Conversely, as a religious scholar dedicated to teaching the fundamental tenets of Islam to village folks in the setting of a rural madrasa, Xanî decidedly places himself on the side of the commoners (‘amm), and openly criticises the princely class represented by Sharaf Khān and his peers, which he blames for the sorry state of affairs in the country. This criticism mostly relates, on the one hand, to the amirs’ lack of interest in sponsoring the production of Kurdish books, and on the other hand, to their failure to unite, which according to Xanî has permitted the Turks, the Persians, and the Arabs to easily impose their implacable rule over the Kurds. As both of these aspects of Xanî’s critique have already received satisfactory attention in other studies,195 we shall primarily focus here on Xanî’s approach to these issues as viewed against the background of earlier texts, and notably the works that have been discussed previously in this chapter. Whether Xanî was aware of the Sharafnāma, the Selīm Shāhnāma, the Seyāḥatnāme, and other recent works, is of course unknown; yet, there is an argument to be made for reading Xanî’s sebeb-i telîf, and notably its sections 5, “Our plight”,196 and 6, “Why this book is written in 193 They are only alluded to in passing in the book’s muqaddima, as the author emphasises their filial piety, hospitality and religious devotion. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 14–15; also Alsancakli, “Le Šarafnāma de Šaraf Xān Bidlīsī”, I, 90–98. 194 See for example Sharaf Khān’s account of the short reign of Dawlat Khātūn, amīra of the Lur-i Kuchak; Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 45. 195 See notably Michiel Leezenberg, “Nation, Kingship, and Language: The Ambiguous Politics of Ehmedê Xanî’s Mem û Zîn”, Kurdish Studies 7/1 (2019): 31–50; also Ayhan Tek, Hâmîsiz Şâir, Babasız Metin: Mem û Zîn ve Osmanlıca Çevirileri Üzerine Bir Ỉnceleme (Istanbul: Nûbihar, 2018). 196 Eş’arê medî’heta tewaifê di Kurdan e, bi şuca’et û ‘xeyretê û izhara bedbextî û bê tal’iya wan e, digel hinde sema’het û ‘hemiyetê; see Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 197–222; English translation by Salah Saadalla in Ahmed Khani, Mem and Zin, transl. Salah Saadalla (Duhok: Spîrêz, 2008), 29–32.

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Kurdish”,197 as an answer to certain ideas about the Kurds found in these and other books. Kurdish illiteracy was one of the more commonplace stereotypes put forth by Arabic, Persian, and Turkish authors, and it manifested in the tendency to see the Kurds as essentially a “bedouin people”, entirely at odds with the values of urban Muslim society, namely, obedience to the central powers of the Islamic world, literacy in Arabic, and the orthodox practice of Islam.198 It seems that this prejudiced view was also adopted by some members of the Kurdish ruling elite. Sharaf Khān thus writes that “[the Kurds] are industrious students, but they are not very well versed in the official and customary talents and qualities like poetry, belles lettres, calligraphy and etiquette, such being the means to approach governors and sultans, and to achieve lofty positions in the service of kings dispensing justice”.199 Contrary to this view, Ehmedê Xanî strongly rejects the conception of the Kurds as illiterate and uncivilised folks. He most notably asserts that he wrote his mathnavī epic “so that people might not say ‘The Kurds / Have no origin, knowledge and base / Various nations have their own books / With the sole exception of Kurds’”,200 precisely the assertion made by Sharaf Khān. He adds that if it is true that there are not many books in Kurdish, it is precisely because of the amirs’ disregard for the language: “The Kurds do not lack much perfection”, he writes, “They are orphans lacking opportunities / In the whole they are not so ignorant and uneducated / Yet they are humble and unprotected”.201 In a broader sense, Ehmedê Xanî and Sharaf Khān also seem to have had entirely different perspectives on the Kurdish language. Demonstrating a marked 197 Sebebê nezma kitabê bi vî ezmanî, bi sûretê şikwaya ji dewranî û giliya ji ebnayê di zemanî, ku li bal wan yeksan e hunera danayiyê digel ‘eyba nadaniyê; see Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 223–252; Khani, Mem and Zin, 33–36. 198 See Boris James, “Arab Ethnonyms (‘Ajam, ‘Arab, Badū and Turk): The Kurdish Case as a Paradigm for Thinking about Differences in the Middle Ages”, Iranian Studies 47/5 (2014): 701–707. 199 Dar muṭāla‘a kadd-i bisyār dārand va faz̤āyil va haysiyāt-i rasmī va ‘irfī masl-i shi‘r va inshā’ va ḥusn-i khaṭṭ va ṭarz-i ikhtilāṭ ki bā‘is-i taqrīb-i ḥukkām va salāṭīn va sabab-i izdiyād-i manāṣib-i ‘aliyya nazd-i pādishāhān-i ma‘dilat-guzīn mībāshad chandān bahra nadārand. Even when evoking the presence of “numerous scholars and literati in Kurdistan” (‘ulamā va fuz̤alā-yi Kurdistān (. . .) bisyār ast), especially in the regions of ‘Amādiyya, Suhrān and Bābān (the latter two are only mentioned in ms. Hunt. Don. 13 and its copies), Sharaf Khān notes that their books (tālīfāt va taṣnīfāt), glosses and commentaries (hawāshī va shurūḥ) are not well-known (shuhrat nadārad). See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 15; also Sharaf Khān, Sharafnāma, ms. Hunt. Don. 13, f. 6r, ll. 3–5. 200 Da xelq nebêjitin ku ekrad / Bî me’irifetin bi esil û buniyad / Enwa’iê milel xudankitêbin / Kurmanc tenê di bê ‘hisêbin; see Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 226–229, bayts 240–241; English translation by Salah Saadalla in Khani, Mem and Zin, 33. 201 Kurmanc ne pirr di bêkemal in / Emma di yetîm û bêmecal in / Fîlcumle ne cahil û nezan in / Belkî di sefîl û bêxudan in; see Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 230, bayts 245–246; Khani, Mem and Zin, 33.

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interest in what was, presumably, not his native tongue,202 Sharaf Khān presents it as part and parcel of an idealised and naive Kurdish life. He never misses the opportunity to entertain the reader with anecdotal miscellanea on various aspects of the idiom and its use among the people. This happens most often in the context of folk elements like names, nicknames, and slang terms,203 and it also occurs in dialogues in which the Kurdish speakers are usually depicted as stubborn and irrational.204 While Xanî follows Sharaf Khān in presenting Kurdish as a language belonging to the supposedly unsophisticated tribespeople, nomads, and village folks,205 he does not concur that this somehow makes Kurdish a purely oral medium, unworthy of patronage and unfit for use in written literature and scholarship. To the contrary, Xanî emphatically advocates for his choice to compose Mem û Zîn in Kurdish, owning up to the innovative (bid‘et), and indeed provocative character of his endeavour.206 Whilst acknowledging the influence of earlier Kurdish poets like Melayê Cizîrî, ‘Elî Herîrî and Feqiyê Teyran,207 Xanî also affirms his own personal approach. In the traditional prayer for the readers’ leniency that concludes the sebeb-i telîf, he writes: “I am a wandering seller, not a jeweller / Self-made I am, not a scholar / A Kurd! Mountaineer, a frontiersman / These few words of the Kurdish world / Be received with the grace of kindness / And heard by the ear with fairness / Schemers with ears attentive / If I err do not be vindictive / Save the poet embarrassment / Say, if possible, a word of encouragement / Don’t be amazed at errors and faults / And don’t interpret like zealots”.208

202 This would likely have been the dialect of Azerbaijani Turkish spoken by his Mawṣillū mother, whereas his language of education was Persian. 203 See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 94, 107, 154, 211, 272, 301, 348. The author also shows a notable interest in the phonological properties of Kurdish, as manifested in changes made to proper names of foreign origins, for example noting that “it is in [the Kurds’] habit to shorten names such as Shams al-Dīn into Shamō, ‘Izz al-Dīn into ‘Izzō, Jamshīd into Jamō, and Abdal into Abdō” (īshān hamwāra ism rā bi taṣghīr mīkhwānand chinānchi Shams al-Dīn rā Shamō va ‘Izz al-Dīn rā ‘Izzō va Jamshīd rā Jamō va Abdāl rā Abdō); see Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 210, also I, 107, 162–163, 191, 358. 204 Such conversations are written by Sharaf Khān in Persian, rather than in the original Kurdish. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 432, 441. 205 See Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 240, bayt 266. 206 See Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 224, bayt 237; also Leezenberg, “Nation, Kingship, and Language”, 37. 207 See Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 232–233, bayts 251–252. 208 Ez pîlewerim ne gewherîme / Xudrusteme ez ne perwerîme / Kurmanc im û kûhî û kenarî / Van çend xeberê di Kurdewarî / Îmza bikin ew bi ‘husnê eltaf / Îs’xa bikin ew bi sem’ê insaf / Es’habê ‘xerez ku guh bidêrin / ‘Eyban bi kerem li min veşêrin / Ava rûyê şa’irî nerrêjin / Ger mukine yêke qenc bibêjin / Sehw û ‘xeletan nekin te‘eccub / Teiwil bikin ji bo te‘essub; see Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 285–288, bayts 352–361; English translation in Khani, Mem and Zin, 41.

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Through this seemingly oxymoronic association of scholarly discourse with the coarseness of rural Kurdish life (kurdewarî) Xanî rejects the opposition between orally transmitted forms of folk knowledge and literature, on the one hand, and the more “refined” and “civilised” high literature produced in the classical Islamic city, as the traditional place of knowledge production and erudition, on the other. In doing so, he thus presents himself as a true “scholar of the people”, a self-image that is also congruent with his life and earlier works. In this context, it might indeed be fruitful to approach Mem û Zîn as a text building upon Ehmedê Xanî’s Kurdish-Arabic rhymed dictionary Nûbara biçûkan,209 and the Eqîdeya îmanê, a didactical text explaining the basic principles of Islam:210 two works that aptly demonstrate Xanî’s commitment to his primary mission as a rural madrasa teacher and, as such, an educator to the common people. Rather than describing, like Sharaf Khān, the Kurds as estranged from the traditional genres and venues of classical Islamic knowledge, Xanî instead hints at a separation between the Kurdish folk, as possessors and producers of a rough, but pure and authentic form of literature, and the amirs of Kurdistan, incapable of recognising its hidden value and sheer potential. These amirs are collectively represented by Xanî with a—perhaps imaginary—figure called “Mîrza” (“the Prince”), whom he mocks for having “too much of an unsophisticated outlook” (nezera wî zêde ‘ame), following up, in bayts 284–285, with a clever play on the words ‘amm and xass,211 which subtly implies that the commoners might, in fact, be more refined in their literary tastes than the amirs. It goes without saying that it was quite a very provocative opinion.212 Yet, lack of support for Kurdish literary endeavours is not, as we have seen, Xanî’s sole dispute with the amirs of Kurdistan, as he also lambastes them for their inability to unite, in what has perhaps come to be the most widely read and discussed excerpt of that text, and of any text in the whole of Kurdish literature. Xanî writes:

209 See Ehmedê Xanî, Nûbihara Biçûkan, ed. Huseyn Şemrexî (Istanbul: Nûbihar, 2008). 210 See Ehmedê Xanî, Eqîdeya Îmanê, ed. Huseyn Şemrexî (Istanbul: Nûbihar, 2012). 211 Emma nezera wî zêde ‘ame / Lew xassê nezer ji dil neda me / Ew re’hmetê xasse boy ‘ewamê / Ya rreb bide wî tu her dewamê. See Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 251, bayts 284–285. 212 More specifically, in this passage, Kurdish is compared by Xanî to a copper coin, “unminted by a king of kings”, who could be changed into gold dinars by “Mîrza”, if he were more attentive to its hidden literary qualities. See Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 223–252, bayts 235–285; English translation in Khani, Mem and Zin, 33–36. This passage is discussed in Leezenberg, “Nation, Kingship, and Language”, 41–43.

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See, from the land of the Arabs to that of the Georgians, how the Kurds have become like fortresses! The Turks and the Iranians have built for themselves, on all sides, a Kurdish rampart, using the Kurds as targets for the arrow of destiny. As if they were the key to the frontiers, each of their clan stands as a solid dam, against which the roaring waves of the Turkish and Tajik sea splatter the Kurds with blood, splitting them in two like an isthmus.213

The motif of the Kurds as a “solid dam” (seddekî sedîd) on the Ottoman-Safavid frontier was, interestingly, already found a few years earlier in the Seyāḥatnāme by Evliyā Çelebi, more specifically in Evliyā’s definition of Kurdistan as “a rocky land starting on the northern side from the province of Erzurum and thence to Ḥakkārī, Jazīra, ‘Amādiyya, Mawṣil, Shahrizor, Ḥarīr, Ardalān, Baghdad, Darna, Dartang and Baṣra”, a territory which he further defines as “located between Arabian Iraq and the Ottoman country”, noting that “the latter would easily be invaded by the Persians, were it not for the strong dam [sedd-i sedîd] constituted by the six thousand Kurdish tribes dwelling on its mountains [of Kurdistan]”.214 In employing this metaphor, however, Evliyā was not being entirely innovative, as it had also been used before by authors such as ‘Azīz Efendi, who attributes, in his Kanūn-nāme-i sulṭānī, the following words to sultan Süleymān I: Just as God, be He praised and exalted, vouchsafed to Alexander ‘the two horned’ to build the wall of Gog, so God made Kurdistan act in the protection of my imperial kingdom like a strong barrier and an iron fortress [sedd-i sedîd ve ḥiṣâr-i ḥadîd] against the sedition of the demon Gog of Persia.215

Whether or not these words can actually be attributed to the Ottoman sultan, it is obvious that the idea of Kurdistan standing as a “Sunni barrier” against the Safavids ultimately went back to the early 10th/16th century, and Idrīs Bidlīsī’s portrayal

213 Bifikir ji ‘Ereb heta ve Gurcan / Kurmanc çi bûyne şubhê burcan / Ev Rom û ‘Ecem bi wan ‘hesarin / Kurmanc hemî li çar kenarin / Herdû terefan qebîlê kurmanc / Bo tîrê qeza kirîne armanc / Goya ku li ser ‘hedan kilîdin / Her tayife seddekî sedîdin / Ev qulzumê Rûm û be’hrê Tacîk / Gava ku dikin xurûc û te’hrîk / Kurmanc dibin bi xûn mulettex / Wan jêk vedikin misalê berzex; see Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 214–217, bayts 220–225 (English translation my own; see Salah Saadalla’s translation in Khani, Mem and Zin, 31). 214 See Evliyâ Çelebi, Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi: Bağdad-Basra-Bitlis-Diyarbakır-Isfahan-Malatya-Mardin-Musul-Tebriz-Van. 4. Kitap, 1. Cilt, ed. Seyit Ali Kahraman and Yücel Dağlı (Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 2010), 110. This passage is also discussed in Metin Atmaca, “Change and Continuity”, 84; see also Martin van Bruinessen, “Kurdistan in the 16th and 17th centuries”; and Martin van Bruinessen, “Les Kurdes et leur langue au XVIIème siècle : Notes d’Evliya Çelebi sur les dialectes kurdes”, Studia Kurdica 1–5 (1988): 16–19. 215 Ḥaḳ subḥânehu ve te‘âlâ sedd-i Ye’cûc binâ etmeği İskender-i ẓu’l-ḳarneyne müyesser etdiği gibi memâlik-i maḥrûsemden fitne-i Ye’cûc-i ‘Acem def‘ine Kürdistan[i] bir sedd-i sedîd ve ḥiṣâr-i ḥadîd eylemiştir. See ‘Azîz Efendi, Kanûn-nâme-i sultânî, 14 (translation), 35 (Turkish text).

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of the Kurds as “a faithful breed of people, most hostile enemies of the heretical Qizilbāsh on both worldly and religious matters, and notably the latter’s persecution of the people of the Sunna”,216 a people whose interests thus naturally aligned with that of the Ottomans. As we have seen, this vision constituted the basis for an enduring Ottoman-Kurdish alliance that was still hailed, decades later, by authors like Sharaf Khān and ‘Azīz Efendi, and even Evliyā who, writing more than a century and a half after Idrīs, concluded his description of the Kurdish lands by wishing that “the realm of Kurdistan would forever stand between the Ottoman house and the Persian shah”.217 By reprising the sedd-i sedîd formula, Ehmedê Xanî thus chose to exploit a commonly-used cliché that would presumably have been quite familiar to his audience—yet, as had previously been the case with his take on Kurdish literacy, or lack thereof, he differs from his predecessors by offering a radically-transformed perspective wherein, instead of being presented as a guarantee for the security of the Ottoman Empire, the “Kurdish dam” is described as a fundamental cause for the devastation and division experienced by the Kurds. Although, like Feqiyê Teyran before him, he certainly considered the Safavids as heretics—in the Mem û Zîn story, Tajdîn and Mem’s bravery is notably exemplified by the fact that they had “captured two hundred Qizilbash”218—Xanî goes far beyond Feqî’s disillusionment with the Ottomans’ lack of solidarity with their Sunni brethren, as expressed in Şerê Dimdim. In Mem û Zîn, the Turks (Rom) are explicitly mentioned, along with the Persian (‘Ecem), as enemies and oppressors of the Kurds.219 Such a vision certainly echoed that of the common folk of Kurdistan who, unlike their princely elites, had nothing to gain in the relentless border wars of the two empires.220 Xanî doesn’t stop there, however, and, as the self-proclaimed voice of the folk, he also expresses his wish for the advent of a strong ruler (cehanpenah, padişah) capable of uniting all Kurdish clans, and putting an end to foreign oppression.221

216 Ṭāyifa-yi Akrād-i mu’min-nijād az jihat-i mulk u millat va tanāfī-yi mazhab-i ahl-i sunnat a‘dā ‘aduw-i ān malāḥīda-yi Qizilbāsh būdand. See Idrīs-i Bidlīsī, “Selim Şāh-nāme”, 207. 217 See Evliyâ Çelebi, Seyahatnâme, 110. 218 See Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 599–600, bayts 1166–1169; English translation in Khani, Mem and Zin, 111. 219 See Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 206–208, 214–216, 220–221, bayts 206–208, 221, 225, 231–232. 220 This is powerfully illustrated in another of Feqiyê Teyran’s poems, “Dilo Rabe” (“Rise, my heart!”), composed in 1041/1631–1632, in the midst of the disastrous Ottoman-Safavid war of 1032–1049/1621–1639. See Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 203–236, notably pp. 231–234, in which the poet complains about the hardships brought on by war and the wretched state of affairs in the world. 221 See Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 200–212, bayts 195–215. Once again, Xanî echoes Feqiyê Teyran’s lament at his own “inutility” as a poet (Dinê qenc e tijî şêr bin / Jê xêran ra di xweşmêr bin / Ne mislê min di bêkêr bin / Dibê kesp û dibê kar e; see Feqiyê Teyran, Helbest, 221), noting that “if subordination to them [the Turks and Persians] is so shameful / It is for the famous disgraceful / It is disgraceful for

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Much discussed as this passage has been, it has not yet been pointed out that the model for such a padişah can actually be found in the book with the character of Emîr Zeyneddîn, brother of Zîn and ruler of the emirate of Jazīra. Despite his ambiguous role in the story, being the one preventing the union of Mem and Zîn, the figure of Emîr Zeyneddîn, as depicted by Ehmedê Xanî, indeed bears similarities to other historical rulers turned Kurdish folk heroes.222 Like Malik Shams al-Dīn, Khān Abdāl Bukhtī, and Amīr Khān Birādōst, Emîr Zeyneddîn is based on an historically-attested ruler of Jazīra, Amīr Zayn al-Dīn Abdāl b. Amīr Abdāl (r. 833–860/1429– 1456).223 Xanî’s introduction of this character as “a king of times foregone”, “scion of the Arabs and amir of the Kurds”, “known as Mîrê Bohtan”, and who “ruled over the Turks, the Arabs, and the Persians”, serves as an impressive representation of the type of figure the author wishes would rise again among the Kurdish amirs.224

the prince and the ruler / What fault is it of the poet and pauper?” (Tab’iyetê wan eger çi ‘ar e / Ew ‘are li xelqê namîdar e / Namûse li ‘hakim û emîran / Tawan çiye şa’r û feqîran); see Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 209–210, bayts 209–210; English translation in Khani, Mem and Zin, 30, slightly modified to better reflect the meaning of the last hemistich. 222 The character of Emîr Zeyneddîn is also present, with name variants such as Mîr Sêvdîn, Mîr Zêydîn, etc., in the oral versions of Mem û Zîn collected throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, indicating that he was already a part of the folk narrative adapted into writing by Ehmedê Xanî. See Chyet, “Studies on Mem u Zin”, 51–62, 282–283. 223 Amīr Abdāl is only alluded to in the section of the Sharafnāma devoted to the amirs of Jazīra, which has little information on the period preceding the 10th/16th century; however, he is discussed in more detail in ṣaḥīfa IV, in the context of his conflict with Amīr Shams al-Dīn Dushwār of Bidlīs. The existence of numerous coins minted in his name also attest to Amīr Abdāl’s status in the mid9th/15th century. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 122–123, 384–386; Yusuf Baluken, “Kuruluşundan Osmanlı Hâkimiyetine Kadar Cizre Buhtî Beyliği”, in Uluslararası Şırnak ve Çevresi Sempozyumu, ed. M. Nesim Doru (Ankara: Şırnak Üniversitesi Yayınları, 2010), 124–126, 128–130; and Yusuf Baluken, “Çend dokument ji serdema Mîr Evdalê Botî”, Nûbihar Akademî 2 (2014): 119–124. 224 Go padişahek zemanê sabiq / Rabû di ‘hukûmeta xwe faiq / Ecnasê milel mutî’ û munqad / Salarê ‘Ereb, emîrê Ekrad / Textê wî Cizîr û bext mes’ûd / Tal’ qewî û meqam me’hmûd / Rom û ‘Ereb û ‘Ecem di ferman / Meşhûr bi nave Mîrê Bohtan / Abaê ‘uzam û cedd û walid / Mensûbê muselselê di Xalid / Cebbarê felek ji wî ‘hezerkar / Meslûlê ji sellê seyfê cebbar / Zîbendeyê mulk û zînê dîn bû / Navê wî Emîr Zînedîn bû. See Xanî, Mem û Zîn, 289–297, bayts 362–377. The mention of the “lineage of Khālid”, as well as of Emîr Zeyneddîn’s Arab origin, refer to the claim made by the amirs of Jazīra to be descended from an Umayyad caliph named “Khālid b. Wālid”, to be identified either with the twelfth Umayyad caliph Yazīd III Abū Khālid b. Wālid, who ruled very briefly in 126/744, or to the much more well-known Muslim commander of the conquest of Syria, Khālid b. Wālid (d. 21/642), who was not, however, a caliph. See Scheref, Scheref-Nameh, I, 115; also Alsancakli, “Warriors, Kings, and Caliphs”, 102.

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Concluding Remarks The very nature of the criticism leveled at the amirs by Xanî in Mem û Zîn aptly demonstrates the growing divide that seems to have existed at the turn of the 12th/18th century between the rural scholars and the princely elite of Kurdistan. Although the Kurdish emirates continued to exist for another century and a half until increasing Ottoman and Iranian efforts at centralisation put an end to their autonomous status, it became more and more evident over time that, too attached to the traditional structures of power and increasingly estranged from the commoners’ hopes and inclinations, they could never foster the kind of wide-ranging appeal necessary to unite all the Kurdish tribes and clans as well as the different sectors of Kurdish society behind their charismatic leadership. Although Xanî presents himself as merely a representative of the common folk, it is towards the very sector of society to which he belonged, the Sufi religious scholars, that the Kurdish people increasingly turned to for leadership. It is also from among their ranks that would emerge figures best capable of making attempts at uniting the Kurds. In fact, the earlier part of Xanî’s century had already seen the advent of such a figure, Shaykh ‘Azīz Maḥmūd of Urmiya, who, like Xanî, was a Naqshbandī Sufi and managed to assemble tens of thousands of followers in and around the Ottoman province capital of Diyārbakr. Owing to the “strengthened religious awareness and sentiments among the Sunni inhabitants of the buffer zone”, the Shaykh, himself an exile from Safavid lands, indeed “was a fit candidate for the position of a leader with whom these people could identify themselves”. Furthermore, his presence in Diyārbakr, rather than in any of the urban centres of the autonomous Kurdish principalities, allowed him to establish for himself a separate and rival base of power, unchallenged by the political influence of the amirs.225 Like Xanî, Shaykh Maḥmūd seems to have considered himself a true representative of the people for whom he strived to secure political and economic justice, and whose grievances he repeatedly forwarded to sultan Murād IV, whom he met twice before the latter, wary of his “hold over the lower classes”, had him executed on the way back from the Ottoman conquest of Baghdad in 1049/1639.226 In the following two and a half centuries, similar charismatic religious figures would rise again and mobilise followers until, in 1880, Shaykh ‘Ubaydullāh of Nehrī, another Naqshbandī shaykh, eventually led what has since been deemed the first Kurdish

225 See Martin van Bruinessen, “The Naqshbandi Order in Seventeenth-Century Kurdistan”, in Naqshbandis : cheminements et situation actuelle d’un ordre mystique musulman, ed. Marc Gaborieau, Alexandre Popovic and Thierry Zarcone (Istanbul : Éditions Isis, 1990), 337–360. 226 See van Bruinessen, “The Naqshbandi Order”.

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nationalist rebellion.227 Yet, such rebellions were not to be successful, and with the division of Kurdistan between the four nation-states of Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Turkey, following the First World War, the question of Kurdish unity has, until today, remained on the agenda, ensuring the continued relevance of Xanî’s proclamation.

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Marouf Cabi

Sherko Bekas and the Emergence of Postnational Kurdish Literature Abstract: This chapter analyses the poet Sherko Bekas’s Now A Girl Is My Homeland, representing a post-national trend in contemporary Kurdish literature. “Postnational literature” denotes a shift from being mainly concerned with promoting the national consciousness of the Kurds and elevating their status to nationhood— into an increasingly critical field concerned with promoting social consciousness. Bekas’s critical engagement with the Kurdish state-building process in the last few decades resulted in several breathtaking literary works which signified a literary break with the past. While many themes represent this literary transformation, religion and gender constitute two vital aspects of that transformation, intimately connected to a rapidly changing world. This chapter presents a historical overview of the course of modern Kurdish literature, outlining the distinguishing characteristics of the two literary transformations at the turn of the twentieth and twenty first centuries. This is followed by an analysis of religion and gender in Bekas’s recent work so to show the postnational transformation in Kurdish literature. This chapter traces the emergence of a postnational trend in Kurdish literature.1 It sets out by positing a simultaneous historical overview of Kurdish literature and an analysis of conceptual transformations in Sherko Bekas’s (1940–2013) poetic production during the last decade of his literary career. Arguably being the greatest Kurdish-Sorani speaking poet of all time, Bakas’s literary career reflects the course of Kurdish literature and its transformations throughout the twentieth century. Significantly, his latest poems, epitomized by his narrative poem Estā Kchek Nīshtimānma (Now a Girl is My Homelnad), published in 2012, marks the emergence of a post-national literature, a point yet to be fully appreciated in Kurdish scholarship. “Postnational literature” here denotes as a literature which seems to have begun a shift from being mainly concerned with promoting the national consciousness of 1 The ideas in this paper were first presented to Contemporary Kurdish Literature Seminar, which was organized by the University of St Andrews, Department of Modern Languages, in April 2017. I thank all the participants for their comments. I also thank Kurdish Studies Journals’ two anonymous reviewers for reviewing a draft I had submitted to the journal after the seminar. After receiving their comments, I decided not to publish the article and do more research. In this essay, I have also tried to pay close attention to their comments. Acknowledgement: I would like to thank Vahid Davar for his valuable comments. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110634686-005

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the Kurds and elevating their status to nationhood—into an increasingly critical field concerned with promoting social consciousness. “Postnational” represents a rupture in national history which national historiography presents as a continuous struggle of a people from time immemorial. On the other hand, “social” is a catchall term denoting awareness of crucial aspects of modern society that national awareness circumscribes. Indeed, following a modern transformation in Kurdish literature, and historical thinking, at the turn of the twentieth century, the literature began to actively engage with themes such as social ideas, the question of women, education, and progress. Such subjects were considered central to creating the concept of a new, progressive Kurdish nation. That said, the twenty first century has presented new challenges, consequently reshaping contemporary Kurdish literature. Crucially, the picture, now, includes a Kurdish regional government in Iraq (KRG), established in 1991, which has consolidated itself, especially since 2003, and is preoccupied with nation-building and modernization. Poetry, a (fledging) novel production, and other literary and cultural practices, have found themselves in new regional and global contexts; this is also the case with academia (e.g., in Iraqi and Iranian Kurdistan), which has refocused its attention towards social, cultural, and gender histories. The literature’s critical treatment of KRG’s programs and policies, alternatively providing visions for both the present and the future, is significant for the emergence of postnational literature. Interestingly, Kurdish societies in different countries are witnessing new literary, journalistic, or academic endeavors. For example, in Iran and Turkey, there are reflections of socio-economic and political transformations, along with new global trends in the literature. As such, they shape the scholarship concerned with themes related to the Kurds. Works produced in the literary and academic fields defy historical assumptions by redefining ingrained concepts and deconstruction of narratives, which have been predominantly based on a national understanding of self. Therefore, “postnational Kurdish literature” denotes a literature which, while continuing to defend the idea of Kurdish nationhood, also critically engages with the consequences of nationhood and nation-building. It does not imply the end of a nation and nationalism; however, its emergence is made possible because of the fact that the nation-state is a failed experiment, on the one hand, and ethnic identity is deemed inadequate to satisfy the requirements of the time, on the other. The literature is increasingly concerned with social, cultural, and gender issues within a self-ruled polity and has become a field for contending visions of a Kurdish political and social entity. Concurrently, a growing academic field in both the KRG and Iranian Kurdistan has posed new challenges to the established national approaches to history, society, and culture. Therefore, the term postnational incorporates critiques which transcend national, even though (Kurdish) identity remains a central theme.

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A historical overview of the course of modern Kurdish literature outlines the distinguishing characteristics of the two literary transformations in the turn of the twentieth and twenty first centuries. The sections in this chapter are organized accordingly in order to historicize Bekas’s poetry and argue for a postnational trend based on a transformation just short of a metamorphosis in the poetry of one of the most celebrated poets of modern Kurdish literature. His career reflects many aspects of the course taken by Kurdish literature, while he emphatically champions the new trend in his latest works, signaling a decisive literary rupture with the past. While there are many articles in Kurdish, and only few in English on Sherko Bekas’s latest work (Now a Girl is My Homeland), they have not been able to capture this literary transformation in Kurdish literature. Moreover, while informative in their own right, they confine themselves, mainly, to its (Now a Girl is My Homeland) literary forms, and chronological or biographical accounts.2 Mariwan Vrya Qane‘ analyses themes or concepts such as woman and martyr, and interestingly presents Bekas as an ardent representative of a humanist Kurdishness.3 Bekas’s poems have been sporadically translated into English. The exception is a complete translation of Darbandī Papula (Butterfly Valley) by Choman Hardi, a poem which “was written in the wake of the Anfal Genocide (February-September 1988) and the gassing of Halabja (16 March 1988)” in Iraqi Kurdistan.4 Now a Girl is My Homeland, too, has been partly translated into English, followed soon after by a full Persian translation, where multiple translations of his works speak to his popularity. Although published commentaries or articles on Bekas’s poetry have praised its critical spirit, the focus should be on his contemporary literary transformation which is responding to the new challenges of our time. Regionally, this historical study focuses on the Kurdistan regions in Iraq and Iran for several reasons. First, the regions are intimately linked by the Sorani dialect. Second, they share, more than other Kurdish regions, closely connected political and cultural histories. Finally, they provide the context for the rise of Sherko Bekas and the conceptual transformations of his poetry. Franz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth in which he forewarns against the “pitfalls of national consciousness” in the aftermath of national independence can be considered a platform for the following discursive.5 However, for Fanon, who censured corruption and exhorted the national bourgeoisie and took them to task 2 Cf. Amir Sharifi, “A Tribute to Sherko Bekas the Kurdish Poet of the Century,” accessed July 10, 2021, https://www.rudaw.net/english/opinion/12092013. 3 Mariwan Vrya Qane’, “Sheko Bekas w Kurdbun,” [Sheko Bekas and Kurdishness], Roffa, no. 76 (2013) 4 Sherko Bekas, Butterfly Valley, trans. Choman Hardi (Todmorden: Arc, 2018), 9. 5 Franz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (England: Penguin Books, 2001), 119–165.

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on their economic role,6 the promotion of social consciousness serves a national one, whereas, for example, for Sherko Bekas avoiding such pitfalls demands transcending a national self that is legitimized by a national history. This implies that in order to achieve a society which is not only politically independent but is firmly based on social values such a society must stipulate denationalization of modern concepts, and deconstruction of historical narratives. Sherko Bekas does exactly that in his latest works. Insofar as theoretical framework is concerned, it is important to demonstrate some awareness of the works which help deal with the notion of poetry as social discourse—and the transformation of the meaning of concepts. Bakhtin’s notion of “art for life’s sake”, in contrast to the established notion of “art for art’s sake”, transformed the function of poetry as a discourse or dialogue—with prosaic form which makes dialogue possible—related to life, liberating poetry from a strict aesthetic heritage.7 As discussed below, both Kurdish classical and modern poetries are distinguished based on that approach. On the other hand, Yuri Lotman is essential for understanding the way the meaning of concepts transforms through time. Kurdish modern poetry and prosaic forms, which flourished throughout the twentieth century, bestow new definitions to familiar terms or produce new concepts to advance their desired “nation”.8 In this regard, the framework benefits from Karimi Hakkak’s study of the transformation of Persian poetry into a social discourse in the nineteenth century. A comparative study reveals similarities in the way poetry transforms according to historical and intellectual contexts. Finally, Ghaderi’s study of the emergence of Kurdish modern poetry in which she traces the origins of Kurdish nationalism devotes appreciable attention to the transformation of the meaning of concepts, a theme neglected by many in search of the origins of Kurdish nationalism.9 Additionally, gender theories, nationalism studies, and studies on modernization form other components of the following theoretical framework. “Modernization” refers to patterns formulated by modernization theories of post-World War II period to modernize non-Western countries based on a Western model: the theories proved to be authoritarian.10 On the other hand, the 6 ibid., 120. 7 On Bakhtin see Deborah J. Haynes, Bakhtin Reframed: Interpreting Key Thinkers For the Arts (London: I. B. Tauris, 2013) 8 See Andreas Schönle, Lotman and Cultural Studies: Encounters and Extensions (Madison, WIsconsin University of Wisconsin Press, 2006). 9 See Farangis Ghaderi, “The Emergence of Modern Kurdish Poetry” (PhD, University of Exeter, 2015). 10 For critiques of modernization and development theories, tradition and modernity see Reinhard Bendix, “Tradition and Modern Reconsidered,” in Embattled Reason, ed. Reinhard Bendix, vol. 2 (New Jersey: Transaction, Inc., 1988); Ilan Pappe, The Modern Middle East (New York: Routledge, 2005), 1–13; Zachary Lockman, The Contending Visions of the Middle East: The History and Politics

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discussion of gender, herein follows many important works in this regard;11 while concepts and terms around the nation, theoretically, rest on nationalism studies.12 Evident in Bekas’s latest works, gender, and religion constitute two distinguishing features of postnational literature. For example, Now a Girl is My Homeland, which replaces a masculine homeland with a feminine one, is a fierce denunciation of patriarchal gender relations in the Kurdish society under the KRG. As regards religion, while Bekas’s latest poems continue his celebrated secularism, his critical treatment of religion should be understood in the context of a growing tension between secular Kurdayeti (Kurdishness) and religious Kurdayeti.13 Unlike the Baʿthist era, Bekas’s explicit censure of religion alienated him from a considerable part of the population in the KRG. However, while gender studies inform this study to assess the scope of Bekas’s critique of gender relations and the role of women in society, a critical view of the secularist thesis in modernizing societies exposes shortcomings of a prevalent perception of secularism, also represented by Bekas.14 Bekas’s views on gender relations and religion have been popularly considered as progressive and secular. While the mature Bekas was undoubtedly, and more consciously, a critic of patriarchal gender relations, and of powerful Islamic institutions that, as his poems constantly remind us, have not contributed to the wellbeing of society, it is important to identify both, his shortcomings as regards gender, and of Orientalism, 2nd ed. (USA: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 134–148; Arturo Escobar, Encountering Development: The Making and Unmaking of the Third World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995). 11 See Joan Wallach Scott, “Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis,” in The Feminist History Reader, ed. Sue Morgan (New York: Routledge, 2006); Merry E. Wiesner-Hanks, “Gender,” in Writing Early Modern History, ed. Garthine Walker (London: Hodder Arnold, 2005); Dorothy Ko, “Gender,” in A Concise Companion to History, ed. Ulnika Rublack (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Stefan Dudink, Karen Hagemann, and John Tosh, eds., Masculinities in Politics and War: Gendering Modern History (Manchester Manchester University Press, 2004).; Raewyn Connell, Gender, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Polity, 2009). 12 Pioneered by known works in this regard, see Roger Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed: Nationhood and the national question in the New Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Andreas Wimmer, Nationalist Exclusion and Ethnic Conflict: Shadows of Modernity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 13 Kurdayeti does not simply mean “Kurdish nationalism”, although it includes both a worldview and a cultural movement that are based on a national understanding of self and history. It denotes both a sense of belonging to Kurds and struggle for their cultural and ethnic rights. As an ideology, nationalism can be defied by many who are receptive of Kurdayeti as a way of life. Like Iraniyat (Iranianness), Kurdayeti refers to an ethnic identity with its ethnic characteristics, capable of both radicalization and moderation. 14 See Raewyn Connell, Gender: In World Perspective (Cambridge: Polity, 2009); Scott, “Gender.” On secularism thesis see Nikki R. Keddie, “Secularism and State: Towards Clarity and Global Comparison,” New Left Review, no. 226 (Nov 1 1997).

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where religion is concerned the context in which two kinds of Kurdayeti endeavor for cultural hegemony. Sherko Bekas was born in 1940 in Sulaymaniya, which was one of the main cultural centers of Kurdistan proper in modern Iraq. He was the son of Fāyaq Bekas, a poet and teacher, “from whom Sherko as a young child learned the passion for poetry and his homeland”.15 His father’s poetry provided the prism through which Bekas imbibed the ideas of the time and received social, political, and cultural visions, which rested on a clamorous history of ideas and political upheavals. Bekas was however far more than just a poet. Ordinary men and women, whose continuous rebellions against tyranny and dictatorship create the thriving context for Bekas’s poetry, find a special, unmatched voice in his lyrics. He acknowledges the sacrifices made by the Kurds in mesmerizing ways, distinguishing himself by his idiosyncratic anthropomorphism. He describes himself as a “tall pain”, that “without mounting on another sorrow’s shoulders the wretched can see, wherever they be”.16 He measures the sorrow of his people against the length of history (“your sorrow was a few inches taller”), and the depth of the wounds of his people against that of the sea: “the sea screamed and almost drowned in you”.17 “ʿĀshiq” (Ku. In Love) depicts the creation of the flute in a process in which a sugar cane falls in love with the northern wind. However, the sugarcane farm, not allowing this union, punishes the cane by calling a woodpecker, who then makes holes in the defiant cane’s torso.18 A poem on Charlie Chaplin reminds us to learn from history and remember that “the throne is destined to corrode [.  .  .] while Chaplin’s hat, stick and boots will stay with us forever”. And, as in Pirsa (Mourning), when in the wake of the Anfāl’s destruction of Kurdish villages human spirit seems to have reached its nadir, Bekas’s short poems, entitled Awena Bichkolakan (the Small Mirrors) do inspire: A rain died The earth arranged a three-day mourning in a tilled field The one who wept and sobbed the most Was a bird from the garden of a razed village.19

Although shaped in a violent context of the 1980s, Bekas’s poetry remained a haven for beauty and peace, avoiding calls for a violent solution to the existing one. He achieved his poetic fame during the decade when the Kurdistan regions in both Iran and Iraq were engulfed in fierce armed struggle following the 1979 Iranian 15 Sharifi, “A Tribute.” 16 Sherko Bekas, Diwani Sherko Bekas 1974–1986, vol. vol. 2 (Kurdistan: n.p., 2006), 760. 17 Sherko Bekas, Diwani Sherko Bekas 1968–1980, vol. 1 (Kurdistan: n.p., 2006), 467. 18 Bekas, Diwani Sherko Bekas 1974–1986, vol. 2, 583–584. 19 Ibid.629.

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Revolution.20 His poetry constantly reminds those in power of the futility of the oppression of the Kurds because, the poet warns, historically it is people who will survive and thrive. Finally, his historical narrative is based on the myth of the Great Kurdistan. “Chiwār Jazhin” (Four Celebrations), implying Kurdistan being divided into four parts, promises to make four celebrations into one. If his poetry has a voice, it can be characterized as humanist—with freedom occupying the main theme. Freedom is a recurring motif in his poetry, making the contours of his humanity infinite. He represents many identities, national and international, defying a simple interpretation. He was a master in the art of figurative expression, unmatched among his contemporary Kurdish poets. In this regard, he is indebted to many such as Nikos Kazantzakis who uses the same aesthetic technique.21 Bekas gives the clue by following the Greek writer’s explanation of the purpose of poetry as seeking deliverance, quoted in the beginning of his celebrated dīwān (collection of poetical works) which contains poems composed between 1974 and 1986.22 According to Choman Hardi, “he admits that his ‘dictionary is limited / under the weight of pain and torture’. Words cannot express his pain, they are no longer tools of communication”.23 For example, “in Halabja absurdity and contradiction reach a level that they threaten our conceptual framework, threaten coherence and meaning when everything turns into its opposite”, i.e., “Ogre spring, Cruel flowers, Blind sun, Black snow [. . .]”.24 His poetry was shaped in accord with the modern literary transformation, continuing to reshape according to many seminal historical epochs throughout the later decades of the twentieth century, until the next century presented new challenges which he so bravely embraced.

20 In the absence of effective means of communication, and with limited availability of radio stations for Kurdish opposition parties, let alone television broadcasting, his poems would be handwritten on pieces of papers and then exchanged as gifts among comrades I became familiar with his poetry in this way, while his poems at the same time became Kurdish lessons for a young boy like me who had started self-studying the Kurdish language after the outbreak of the Revolution. I had been craving to meet him. One day, there he was standing on a makeshift platform in a public meeting organized for celebrating the First of May in 1985. The meeting happened in a place called Maluma, a beautiful valley at the foot of the Piramagrun Mountain overlooking Sulaymaniya in Southern Kurdistan. As soon as he started reciting his revolutionary poems, he captured this young boy’s imagination instantly. 21 Nikos Kazantzakis (1883–1957) was a Greek writer who made a major contribution to modern Greek literature. His novels have been widely translated. For example, Zorba the Greek (1946;) is a portrayal of a passionate lover of life and poor-man’s philosopher, while Freedom or Death (1950) depicts the Cretan Greeks’ struggle against their Ottoman overlords in the 19th century. 22 See Bekas, Diwani Sherko Bekas 1974–1986, vol. 2. 23 Bekas, Bekas, Butterfly Valley, 10–11. 24 Ibid.

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Modern Conceptual Transformations in Kurdish Literature and Historical Thinking The intellectual origins of modern Kurdish written forms, e.g., literature, historiography, and journalism, go back to the modern literary transformation and as such the transformation of historical consciousness. These transformations in literature and historical perception began to surface decidedly by the end of the nineteenth century. Intellectually, the catalyst was the modern idea of nation, which was central to other modern concepts such as progress, education, as well as the new woman. Combined, they induced a modern, national perception of self and history, upon which the literature found itself relying. These ideas made sense while newly defined nations, with more rigid cultural, historical, and geographical borders replaced previous historical-cultural communities. As such, they began to emerge around the Kurds, whose autonomous emirate-states had but vanished by the middle of the nineteenth century in the face of modernization and centralization in the Ottoman (1299–1922) and Iranian Qajar (1789–1925) empires.25 Furthermore, the socio-economic modernization and cultural homogenization of the nationstates, which finally emerged in the aftermath of the Great War, provided further fertile grounds for the emergence of modern Kurdish literary figures. Engaged in various literary fields, their works reflected modern ideas, challenged powerful definitions, and resisted the modern states’ exclusive process of nation-building and metadiscursive linguistic practices.26 In addition to poetry, hitherto the main representative of the literature, all other emerging literary forms began to reflect the modern perception of self and history.27 Furthermore, a new interest in history led to the proliferation of historical works, which ultimately shaped the foundations of modern Kurdish historiogra-

25 See Carter Findley, “The Ottoman Lands to the Post-First World War Settlement,” in The New Cambridge History of Islam, ed. Francis Robinson, vol. 5 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); Ali Ansari, “Iran to 1919,” in The New Cambridge History of Islam, ed. Francis Robinson, vol. 5 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 26 See Marouf Cabi, “The Duality of Official and Local: Historical and Intellectual Foundations,” Middle Eastern Studies Published online (Mar. 2021), 10.1080/00263206.2021.1891892. 27 After the 1908 Young Turks Revolution, distinct Kurdish groups and journals began to appear. For example, graduated from Maktab-ī Yāsā (Law School) in 1905 and a government employee, the poet Piramerd from Sulaymaniya, in Ottoman Kurdistan, joined a new founded Kurdish organization and wrote for its journal Zhīn (Life). On modern Kurdish poetry see Ghaderi, “The Emergence of Modern Kurdish Poetry.”; Piramerd, Diwani Piramerdi Namir [the Eternal Piramerd’s Collection of poetry], ed. Muhammad Rasul Hawar (Hawler: Shivan, 2007).

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phy, endorsing the idea of the nationhood of the Kurds. The common characteristic of all the literary forms was their attempt at nationalizing language, history, and geography: the three ideological components of nationalism. The literary transformation is best explained in the light of the transformation of historical consciousness from a pre-modern mythological, dynastic, and religious understanding of the past into a national, “scientific” perception of self and history; and modern Kurdish historiography effectively reflected that transformation. The task of constructing a national history, or interpreting history, did not merely fall on modern historians’ shoulders since other Kurdish literary figures also engaged in historiography. Effectively, their poetry, and, or journalistic works were guided by a new understanding of human history and society, promulgated by the new social sciences.28

Poetry and the Modern Literary Transformation Insofar as poetry is concerned, the significance of the said literary transformation was that it transformed poetry into a social discourse. Classical and modern poetries differed in two distinct ways. First, modern poetry began to address social and political conditions more explicitly; and second, it had crucially become a means to modernize society. Significantly, the concept of nation was central for this transformation. The concept shaped historical, social, cultural, and gender-related ideas, orientating the literature towards creating a Kurdish nation, supposedly masculine and secular. The following examples serve as comparative analyses of classical and modern poetries in this regard. In the Persianate world of the early modern times in which a history of Kurdistan would be otherwise written in Persian, there suddenly emerged a text in Kurdish written by Ahmad Khānī (d. 1707) in the end of the seventeenth century. He posed a political question regarding the political positions of the Kurds living under the yoke of the Ottomans and the ruling dynasties of Iran.29 Written in a pre-nationalistic age, as Hassanpour terms it, Khānī’s work did not lead to an alternative which was only provided by the ideology of nationalism several centuries later.30 Modern European ideas began to reflect in Kurdish poetry by the end of 28 Cf. ʿAladdin Sajjadi, Mezhui Adabi Kurdi [The History of Kurdish Literature] (Sanandaj: Kurdistan, 2013). 29 See Ahmad Khani, Mam w Zin, ed. N. Abdulla (Hawler: Aras, 2008); Martin Van Bruinessen, “ Ehmed Xani’s Mem u Zin and Its Role in the Emergence of Kurdish National Awareness,” in Essays on the Origins of Kurdish Nationalism, ed. Abbas Vali (California: Mazda Publishers, 2003). 30 Amir Hassanpour, “Ferment and Fetters in the Study of Kurdish Nationalism,” H-Net Reviews (Sep. 2007), 5.

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the nineteenth century. The pioneer for promulgation of the ideas was Háji Qādir Koyī (d. 1897) whose poetry contained solutions to end the political and social subjugation of the Kurds. Koyī criticizes the traditional education as well as the role of the clergy, while emphasizing literature, written history, and language: “If we had books, history, and records in Kurdish, the name of our clerics, Shaikhs, Princes, and Kings would have remained forever”.31 On the same token, the Classical poet Vafāyī (d. 1902) was more enchained by an aesthetic heritage than was his successor Hemin (1921–1986), who, for example, criticized the former’s poem called “Shīrīn”, a knitting girl, and which advocated a new role for women in society. Addressing Kurdish women, Hemin asserts in Yādgār-ī Shīrīn (the memory of Shirin): Other nations’ daughters invented the Atomic Bomb, and you only know your bread board, and the clay pot. She was educated in science and art, and you spend your days spinning yarn, keeping Shirin’s memory.32

The difference between classical and modern poetics on such matters can be further detected when we engage with poets such as Fāyaq Bekas (1905–1948), who, seemingly influenced by likes of Jamīl Sidqī al-Zahāwī (1863–1936) in the transforming literary context of modern Iraq explicitly demanded unveiling as an essential step towards the emancipation of women:33 Now is the age of science, and knowledge, People of the world toil day and night.

31 Haji Qadir Koyi, Diwan (Stockholm: Nefel, 2004), 61 Translated in Ghaderi, “The Emergence of Modern Kurdish Poetry.” Moreover, Vafāyī, a contemporary of Koyī, seems to be entirely oblivious to the themes which induced such literary and historical transformations. Despite being in close contact with ʿUbeidula Nahrī, the leading figure of the rebellion of the early 1880s, his memoirs lacked any reference to any emerging distinct Kurdishness. Cf. Vafayi, Vafayi’s Memoirs, trans. Mohammad Hamabaqi (Iraq, Slemani: Kurdology Centre Pres, 2010). 32 Farangis Ghaderi, Clémence Scalbert Yücel, and Yaser Hassan Ali, eds., Women’s Voices from Kurdistan: A Selection of Kurdish Poetry (London: Transnational Press London, 2021). 33 The notion of the “emancipation” of women had been demanded, for example, by Abdula Hamit and Tevfik Fikret, the Ottoman intellectuals during the Tanzimat period of the second half of the nineteenth century, who had also proclaimed “the principles of evolution and progress”. See Uriel Heyd, The Foundations of Turkish Nationalism: The Life and Teachings of Ziya Göklap (London: Luzac & Company LTD, 1950), 78 Later intellectuals such as Qasim Amin advocated the idea, leading to the emergence of the notion of the new woman. This is articulated by him in the following book, first published in 1899: Qasim Amin, The Liberation of Women [and] The New Woman (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2000) The idea of the new woman shaped the successive generations of literary or political figures who regarded the idea integral to the idea of the new nation.

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Realize, there’s no difference between men and women. Rise, endeavor, until your blood is warm. Throw away the veil, there’s no shame in that.34

Along the same thematic lines, the nineteenth-century female poet and historian Mastura Ardalān (1800–1844) expresses discontent with a situation in which “be zīr-e maqnaʿ-e mā rā sarīst lāyeq-e afsar” (Per. under the veil, there is a head worthy of a diadem).35 There were many contemporary movements such as the Babi and leading circles such as Huruf al-hāyī (Letters of the Living) that enjoyed the membership of Fātima Bārāghāni, known as Qurrat al-ʿAyn (1817–1852), the female poet and agitator who was executed by the Qajars in 1852. The social history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries is bedeviled by a paucity of sources and lack of sufficient research regarding social conditions and the role of movements intent upon improving such conditions. In any case, it seems that the age of Mastura and Fātima cannot be compared to the profound historical and intellectual transformations of the early twentieth century. While Mastura Ardalān’s poetry, like those of many others, conveys social awareness, it also reflects a milieu lacking the means and purpose available many decades later. Towards the end of the century, for example, debates on the role of women in family and society intensified, reflecting changing circumstances. For instance, criticizing the patriarchal views propagated by an essay entitled “Dar Bayān-e Ta’dīb-e Nasvān” (Per. On the Education of Women), a literate Bībī Khānom asserts in her Maʿāyeb-e Rajāl (The Flaws of Men) that reason is not men’s prerogative. Moreover, in the age of modernity calls for improving the socials status of women were intimately linked to the idea of the new nation, the progress of which required the “new woman”. Pīramerd (1867–1950), the poet and journalist born in Ottoman Kurdistan, who lived up until the establishment of modern Iraq, argued that progress stipulated a “good generation,” i.e., one which is well-educated and embraces modern ideas.36 Other literary figures such as Fāyaq Bekas, Qāneʿ (1898–1965), Gorān (1904–1962), and Hemin continued the promulgation of “the new woman” throughout the twentieth century, some by implication, some explicitly calling women to acquire active roles in advancing social change. Another characteristic of modern transformation was the (re)invention of tradition. Pīramerd’s poetic and journalistic career involves the revitalization of Nawroz or

34 Ghaderi, Yücel, and Ali, Women’s Voices from Kurdistan. 35 Quoted in Mastoura Kurdistani, Tarikhe Ardalan [The History of the Ardalans] (Kermanshahan: Bahrami, 1946), ‫[ ت‬T]. 36 Piramerd, Diwani Piramerdi Namir, 30–31 Diacritics are needed here to avoid any misunderstanding.

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the New Year celebration as a Kurdish tradition, nationalizing mythological accounts and legends such as Kāwa, the blacksmith, who led a popular uprising against a ruthless foreign ruler, Zahāk.37 Therefore, transformed from a pre-modern aesthetic heritage to a social, modernizing discourse, modern Kurdish poetry had embarked on elevating the political and national consciousness of the Kurds in the context of the formation of the modern states. The states became new contexts in which modern ideas proliferated and new literary figures were molded. State-led modernization programs intensified by the middle of the twentieth century, while an exclusive nation-building had systematically promoted a core ethnocultural people, subsequently degrading the positions of others into subculture or “minority”. To this end, the idea of nation was crucial for the nationalization of cultures and peoples. As the ideological constructs of nationalism, history, language, and geography provided justifications for the states’ powerful discourses therein. A national history justified the modern nation state, a national language endorsed exclusive and oppressive language reforms based on language ideologies, and a sacred geography guaranteed the territorial integrity of the modern nation, powerfully suppressing political and cultural rights of the marginalized.38 The new states were characterized by imposing linguistic boundaries, while they systematically attempted to promote their desired language as the all-encompassing national language. As a result, monolingualism replaced multilingualism as language had become one of the vital constructs of modernity alongside tradition.39 The formation of modern European states such as France was accompanied by the idea of official and standardized language to serve the political unity of the ‘nation’.40 In Iran, different Iranian languages were gradually classified as official (Persian), and local (e.g., Kurdish).41 The state’s promotion of a community over

37 See Omed Ashna, ed., Piramerd, vol. 1 (Hawler: Aras, 2001), 20–21, 49–50 and 77. Piramerd indicates in his memoirs that he reinvented the tradition in the 1930s based on a myth he had encountered when studying in a religious school (hojra) in the second half of the 19th century. Ibid., p. 82. Piramerd was from Sulaymaniya in Ottoman Kurdistan, graduated from Maktab-i Yasa (Law School) in Istanbul in 1905 and was a government employee. 38 On these themes see Bill Ashcroft, Post-Colonial Transformation (London and New York: Routledge, 2011), 56–156; and on language see Richard Bauman and Charles L. Briggs, Voices of Modernity: Language Ideologies and the Politics of Inequality (Cambridge: University of Cambridge Press, 2003), Ch. 6. 39 See Bauman and Briggs, Voices of Modernity, 1–18. 40 For more on this see Pierre Bourdieu, Language and Symbolic Power (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991), 42–49. On standardisation of Kurdish language see Amir Hassanpour, Nationalism and Language in Kurdistan, 1918–1985 (San Francisco: Mellen Press, 1992). 41 This determination has led to many minority languages in Iran facing possible extinction as Persian is the sole language of school instruction, and administration.

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others, thus sustaining social inequality based on dialect, region, class, and gender in the same geography can be seen through linguistic and cultural policies as well as intellectual and literary movements which, combined with other factors regarding socio-economic modernization and cultural homogenization had ramifications for cultural and literary positions of various communities.42 Consequently, while different nation-states engaged in specific socio-economic and political modernization, such processes yielded profound structural changes and introduced new institutions such as those advancing modern education. Significantly, the post-World War II era witnessed profound intellectual transformations which affected literary endeavors. Indeed, the emerging educated generation was shaped in such turbulent years, prompting them to embark on a mission to play their role as activists, revolutionaries, or literary figures in support of a democratic modernity. These were seeds and the context for the emergence of Sherko Bekas.

Sherko Bekas and Contemporary Literary Transformation Modern and contemporary literary transformations are bridged by Sherko Bekas’s poetry. By the end of the 1980s, two decades of literary life had put Bekas on the cusp of universal recognition with a unique stature in Kurdish poetry. He had established himself, arguably, as the most prominent (Sorani-speaking) Kurdish poet of all time. Many factors were crucial in this regard. First, the Iranian Revolution of 1979 had opened up a new page in the history of the region. Insofar as the Kurds were concerned, it ended political repression, and swiftly moved the Kurdish quest for identity to another level, exerting profound intellectual, political, and literary impacts. It led to the emergence of modern political parties, the nuclei of which had taken shape in the context of the modernization of the nation-states during the previous decades. It enabled the revived Kurdish movement to expand and subsequently cover vast regions in Iraqi Kurdistan. It was also a revolution in literature and cultural production.43 In the case of Bekas, his poetry not only entered a new promising period, but its contents also began to shape accordingly. For example,

42 See Marouf Cabi, “The Roots and the Consequences of the 1979 Iranian Revolution: A Kurdish Perspective,” Middle Eastern Studies 56, no. 3 (2020) 43 Hassan Mir Abedini, Sad Sal Dastan Newisi dar Iran [One Hundred Years of Story-Writing in Iran] (Tehran: Nashre Cheshme, 1998), 765.

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women became a new social force, which, being the product of ongoing socioeconomic and cultural changes, the Revolution had moved to the forefront of politics in Iranian Kurdistan as well. The second factor pertains to the armed struggle which, along with the Iran-Iraq war, characterized the Kurdish regions in both Iran and Iraq in the 1980s. The militarization of the Kurdish region in Iran terminated a period of quasi-autonomy, making civil society movements stillborn. As a result, the armed struggle became the only available, indeed the most attractive, form of resistance. At the same time, the Kurdish region became a space for the survival of political activism for the opposition across Iran which, with the exception of Mujāhedin-i Khalq, ideologically represented a progressive, leftist worldview. The political space created by the armed struggle allowed the continuation of the ideals of the 1979 Revolution, as well as the literary endeavors which responded to that historical and intellectual context. In proximity and reciprocal relationship with Iranian Kurdistan, the armed struggle in Iraqi Kurdistan, especially under the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan, intensified. In the Kurdish cities in Iraq, political and literary activities flourished in connection to a new phase of the Kurdish movement against the Baʿthist regime. In 1980, increasing political suppression and militarization were paralyzing literary activism, forcing figures such as Bekas to leave for the mountains where he continued to publish his poems. Finally, accompanying militarization, the 1980s contained countless cases of political oppression, the executions of political prisoners, prolonged prison stints, and application of systematic torture, banishment and displacement, themes which are reflected in his poetry so powerfully. The end of the decade was marked by the genocidal operation of Anfāl and the gassing of Halabja city. The colossal number of causalities and the destruction of two thousand villages are mourned in various poems written by Sherko Bekas, most notably in a collection of short poems called Āwena Bichkolakān (the Small Mirrors) and Butterfly Valley, mentioned above. Therefore, the best part of Bekas’s poetry in this decade was formed in a violent militarized context of guerrilla warfare. Additionally, the spread of new means of communication, specifically the radio transmitter which was available to the opposition to a limited extent, further boosted his popularity. However, the turn of the twenty first century marks a new trend in Kurdish literature that aims at promoting social consciousness of the Kurds. The trend can be identified by its engagement with issues faced by modern society in a rapidly globalizing world and its critical reading of the past. The emergence of this trend emanates from several factors. The ongoing socio-economic changes experienced by modern societies, rapid globalization, and the movement of people on major scales, followed by worldwide technological transformations continue to question established trends, while simultaneously opening up new literary horizons. Additionally, new challenges for modern societies explain relevant theoretical advances

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in academia since the early 1980s.44 As regards Kurdish societies, this worldwide context invited the literature to take part in a new era of literary endeavors. Consequently, novel-writing increased inside the nation-states and in diaspora, while poetries were translated and Kurdish literary figures were recognized for their works throughout the world.45 However, the emergence of the Kurdish regional government in Iraq in 1991 is discernibly a significant factor for the appearance of a new critical literary trend. As a consequence of this new government, the literature found itself entangled with the process of Kurdish nation-building for the first time. Intensifying since the early 2000s, the process, already tarnished by a decade of violent internal rivalries, inevitably included political, socio-economic, and cultural policies pursued by the ruling Kurdish political parties. The end of the Baʿth regime and the economic boom of the KRG in the next decade, financial and cultural corruptions of the ruling groups, the infringement of political rights, and the regional government’s shortcomings in managing effective socio-economic and political programs, all demanded vigorous critique. Such critiques had to transcend the national and literature was at the forefront to address these issues. In this regard, Bekas’s poetry stands out because of its ability to capture the ups and downs of this process. His poetry became more critical of a nationalized history. For example, as Butterfly Valley showcases, until the 1990s, his poetry explicitly represents continuity in national history.46 Butterfly Valley constructs a firm historical and national link with the past. The classical poets such as Nālī and Sālim are followed by the movements and prominent leaders of the early years of the modern nation states.47 His “long alphabet” reaches back to the Khānī of the seventeenth century, while his own state of exile in Western Europe is explained as a “long exile” reaching back to Nālī and Koyī in Istanbul of the nineteenth century. However, this continuity is decisively ruptured and rethought in later book length poems, best understood within a contrastive contemporary literary transformation. Bekas’s critical engagement with the Kurdish state-building process resulted in several breathtaking literary works which signified a break with the past and

44 See Lawrence Cahoone, ed., From Modernism to Postmodernism: An Anthology (Australia: Blackwell Publishing Ltd, 2003). 45 In the literary sphere cf. Orhan Pamuk, Snow (London Faber, 2004); and the writings of Bakhtiar Ali and Ata Nahai in Iraqi and Iranian Kurdistan, respectively. In the academic sphere, social change studies have advanced amid the increase in universities in the Kurdish region in Iran. For this see Marouf Cabi, “Amir Hassanpour and the Advance of Kurdish Social Studies in Iran,” Derwaze: Kurdish Journal of Social Sciences and Humanities, no. 2 ( Apr. 2018). 46 See Sherko Bekas, Diwani Sherko Bekas 1971–1993, vol. vol. 3 (Kurdistan: n.p., 2006), 483–612. 47 Bekas, Butterfly Valley.

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began to forewarn the pitfalls of national consciousness. His works epitomize this decisive rapture perhaps more than any other in the last two decades. While his poetry remained consistent with voicing the plights of the Kurds and continued to rebuke the civil war throughout the 1990s, his revolutionary poetry of the 1980s was gradually replaced with a new critical outlook more in tune with the challenges of his time. While many themes represent this transformed outlook, religion and gender constitute two vital aspects of that transformation, intimately connected to a rapidly changing world. There are two reasons for this, first of which is that his critique no longer serves a monolithic, imaginative nation and addresses social, political, and cultural issues faced by a reforming Kurdish society at the present. Second, these themes reflect new social forces which continue to vie for political and cultural ascendency in Kurdish society. Regarding religion, the radicalization of his poetry reflects an increasing tension between religious Kurdayeti and secular Kurdayeti in the process of the nation-building in the KRG. On the same token, the transformation of the role of women in Bekas’s poetry corresponds to the same modernizing process, led by the ruling groups, which inevitably affect the gender order of society. His critiques of religion and the gender order of society become fully fledged in “Now a Girl is My Homeland”, which essentially takes shape around those subjects. The following discussion of these themes provides perspectives for analyzing the modernizing Kurdish society in the KRG.

Religion In the new context of modernization and nation-building, Bekas’s censure of religion transformed from being inquisitive and dubious into becoming judgmental. For example, in “Wirta Wirt-e” (Murmuring), composed in 1985, Hama, the shoeshine boy, already exhausted at the end of a long day, asks God the size of his shoes and whether he would give tips.48 The poet’s critique of religion becomes more radical in “Skālā” (Complaint), which depicts Bekas writing a long letter to God “after Halabja was suffocated” as a result of the Baʿthist regime’s chemical attack in 1988. However, “the angel of his poems”, who had reluctantly delivered the letter to God, Bekas informs us, returns it. A message, written in Arabic on the corner of the letter by “the third ranked secretary of God”, someone called ʿUbeid, asks the halfwit writer of the letter to translate it into Arabic before it can be handed to God because, the letter reads, “no one speaks Kurdish here”. Although Sherko Bekas’s poetic skills and celebrated style make such a poem much attractive—and 48 Bekas, Diwani Sherko Bekas 1974–1986, vol. 2, 664–665.

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less offensive—to those with more sensitive religious feelings, his frustration and attempt (perhaps inadvertently) to politicize a language, ethnic names, and then a religion are evident. Unlike the 1980s, when Bekas would have received plenty of adulation, such poems sharply divided opinions in Kurdish society under the KRG. The reason was an incessant intellectual tension already in full swing between the two kinds of Kurdayeti and their rivalry for cultural hegemony. “Secular Kurdayeti” is mainly modelled on “secular” nation-building reminiscent of twentieth-century nation-states. “Religious Kurdayeti”, in contrast, represents diverse visions for a Kurdish polity firmly based on perceived tenets of Islam. This tension, which intensified with the emergence of ISIS has taken many intellectual, governmental, and religious forms in the KRG.49 In the intellectual sphere, a radicalized critique of religion is represented in TV debates on the role of Islam in history.50 On the other hand, in addition to the formation of Kurdish Islamic parties, which are represented in the Parliament of Kurdistan, religious Kurdayeti is centered in mosques and represented by a countless number of Mullahs who oversee the Friday prayers. Significantly, their speeches reveal the politicization of religious meetings. Moreover, technologically, the proliferations of audio-visual means of communication, in addition to social media platforms, have been crucial in the rapid transmission of the contents of such speeches—also to the Kurds in diaspora. This aspect of religious Kurdayeti overshadows a more rational attitude which embodies a non-aggressive reforming line in religious Kurdayeti.51 Furthermore, the main ruling parties’ perceived secularism has the tendency to be authoritarian but also placatory so to appease religious authorities and groups at times of crisis. This refers to an uncritical understanding of secularism as another element of modern society like industrialization or urbanization, a perception which was popularized by modernization theories.52 As the histories of the “secular” nation-

49 This tension which is also evident in Kurdish society in Iran can be explained in the contexts of globalization and recent domestic and regional socio-economic and political developments. 50 For example, Faruq Rafiq, who has studied philosophy, usually represents a Eurocentric, orientalist understanding of Islam. In the sphere of literature, while Sherzad Hasan does not belong to this category, the novelist Bakhtiar Ali’s analyses of contemporary Kurdish society, politics, and culture from a secular perspective are founded on the dichotomy of traditional and modern. 51 This is represented, for example, in debates by likes of Tahsin Hama Gharib, a university lecturer and a member of Komala-i Islami (the Islamic Organization). Cf. Rudaw TV, “ISIS: a debated with Faruq Refiq and Tahsin Hama Gharib”, 2014 (in Kurdish), accessed July 10, 2021, https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=eZ9dBGGE1Jc. 52 See Nikki R. Keddie, “Secularism and State: Towards Clarity and Global Comparison’, in New Left Review 226 (Nov 1, 1997). On modernization theories cf. the following works that form modernization theories: Lerner, The Passing of the Traditional Society: Modernizing the Middle East (USA: Free Press, 1958); Alex Inkeles and David H. Smith, Becoming Modern: Individual Change in Six Developing

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states in the region have shown during the last century, the practical outcome of that perception was authoritarian secularism and modernization, which significantly contributed to the Islamic resurgence which “was also rooted in major contemporary processes of social and political change in the second half of the twentieth century”.53 It was in the context of authoritarian modernizations, for example in Egypt and Iran, that the idea of an Islamic government took form.54 As regards religion, secular nationalism has historically proven to be ambivalent, aiming to create modern appearances, yet intending religious suppression.55 The KRG has effectively inherited the political and technological modernization patterns characterizing the nation-states, including that of modern Iraq.56 Insofar as the KRG is concerned, the conspicuous absence of interdisciplinary academic achievements in this respect is balanced by vast publications that follow the modernized perception of secularism.57 Therefore, Bekas’s explicit critique of religion in his latest poems should be understood in the context of the tension between secular and religious Kurdayetis in a modernizing society.

Countries (London: Heinemann, 1974); Samuel P. Huntington, “Political Modernization: America vs. Europe”, World Politics, Vol. 18, No. 3 (Apr., 1966), pp, 378–414; Clark Kerr and et al., Industrialism and Industrial Man (London: Heinemann, 1962). 53 Saıd Amir Arjomand, “Islamic Resurgence and Its Aftermath,” in The New Cambridge History of Iran, ed. Robert W. Hefner, vol. 6 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 54 See Sami Zubaida, Islam, the People and the State: Political Ideas and Movements in the Middle East (New York: I. B. Tauris, 2009). 55 This ambivalent stance was evident in the policies pursued by the Shah of Iran and Saddam Hussein. Mohammad Reza Shah’s White Revolution (1963–1979) started with promises of the rights of women to vote, but he quickly retreated when faced with religious opposition. On Iran see Gholam Reza Afkhami, The Life and Times of the Shah (California: University of California Press, 2006), 227–229 In the course of the Iran-Iraq War, Saddam Hussain was forced to appeal to Islam as a resource to mobilize popular support. 56 For example, technological modernization, modernization from above, infrastructural spending, surveillance systems, bureaucracy and reliance on oil, unsymmetrical patterns of import and export, are all redolent of a rentier state. 57 For example, Idea, sponsored by the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan, claims to be a “philosophical and intellectual” journal. However, more than publishing critical articles on philosophical and intellectual subjects, it contains translations of articles (in many cases translations of Persian translations of articles written in English) on philosophical figures or mostly superficial introductions to their philosophies. Cf. Idea, No. 36 (2012) and No. 41 (2013).

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Gender Two phases prelude Bekas’s postnational critique of the gender order of society. In the first phase, Bekas’s poetry depicts women as the embodiments of kindness and beauty, qualities which for him distinguish femininity from masculinity. Moreover, in the violent context of the Kurdish struggle, this femininity assumes other qualities. Women are identified as dāīk-ī mehrabān-ī āzādī (the kind mother of freedom), dāīk-ī shahīd (the mother of the martyr), or khoshk-ī shahīd (the sister of the martyr). These qualities are not invented by Bekas but refer to the popular usage of such terms. In presumably masculine enterprise of the armed struggle, women had been popularly perceived as an auxiliary force behind the frontline; and when appeared carrying arms, and their images were used symbolically to refer to exceptionality of Kurdish women. However, this popular expectation of women had been effectively transformed in Bekas’s poetry by the mid-1980s. The stimulus for this transformation mainly came from women whose numbers began to increase as active participants in the armed struggle. Interestingly, this was happening in Iranian and not Iraqi Kurdistan. A new urban, educated generation had emerged across Iran as the result of modern education and the profound socio-economic transformation of that country in the 1960s and 1970s.58 The 1979 Revolution politicized this generation in Kurdistan and made them active participants in political events. The onset of the militarization of Iranian Kurdistan since spring 1980, followed by the widespread threat of incarceration, torture, and execution, forced women activists to leave cities and join the Kurdish parties’ military forces.59 Their membership in the Revolutionary Organization of the Toilers of Iranian Kurdistan, popularly known as Komala, was more prominent—if not almost exclusively limited to it—than in other political parties. Unlike the Democratic Party of Iranian Kurdistan, Komala prioritized the woman question and advocated gender equality, while its increasing popular base outmaneuvered other leftist parties; although, the women struggle was defined as a part of the struggle of the working class. The presence of women in the armed struggle gradually attracted more women in both urban and rural areas. Therefore, circumstances had set this generation of women and Kurdish literature, including poetry, on a collision course. As mentioned above, the Kurdish regions in Iran and Iraq, with great linguistic and cultural commonalities, were experiencing intense guerrilla warfare throughout the 1980s. Kurdish political parties from both sides 58 See Cabi, “The Roots and the Consequences of the 1979 Iranian Revolution.” 59 Many Persian or Turkish speaking women found Kurdistan as a refuge but also as a place to continue their activities after the suppression of opposition in Iran in the early 1980s. Therefore, I avoid “Kurdish women”.

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interacted and, their works forbidden under dictatorship and militarization, writers and poets enjoyed a new space in which they continued to produce literary works.60 In this context, and by the middle of the 1980s, the increasing presence of Kurdish-Iranian women—the number of Azeri and “Persian” women was also considerable—in the armed struggle pressurized Bekas’s poetry towards re-evaluating the role of women in social, political, and cultural spheres. Photographs along with an emerging memoir-writing, though available in a small scale, corroborate this claim.61 However, Bekas’s poetry itself explicitly refers to that shift. As a result, women began to appear in his poems not merely as suffering mothers, and the martyrs’ sisters or wives, but as female peshmergas. The watershed was probably “Bayān”, which was composed in 1985 in commemoration of a young female Peshmerga: Before you, the girls of red bulwarks, I would merely put a necklace on the girl in my poems. . . But once you came, as thunder over my poems, Since then, I have put a gun on the shoulders of the girl in my poems I have brought her a magazine [and] A dress in khaki.62

Although in this phase his poetry accentuates political motivations of women and sheds light on grotesque social conditions, he nevertheless confines them to masculine attributes. This poem elevates women to the status of men in appearance and practice. Nevertheless, Bekas’s poems remained inspirational, fiercely criticizing gender inequality. Furthermore, it can be imagined that his residency in Europe, specifically in Sweden in the late 1980s shaped his outlook towards a more radical treatment of women in his poetry. However, as regards both religion and gender, a decisive break with the past follows the above phases. His works since the new millennium gradually began to represent a new perception of such themes, accompanied by a critical reading of a national past. As has been argued above, the process of the nation-building

60 Kurdish political parties had their own publishing facilities, which published regular journals or newsletters as well as literary works. 61 See Golrokh Qobadi, Shaqayeqha bar Sanglakh: Zendegi wa Zamaneye Yek Zane Kord az Kordestane Iran [Poppies on Rocks: The Life and Time of a Kurdish Woman from Iran] (2015); Golrokh Qobadi, ed., Golzare Shaqayeqha: Nagoftehaye Zanane Mobareze Kordestane Iran (Germany: Noqteh, 2020); Nahid Vafaiy, Jelwehaye Zendegi [The Shine of Life] (Stockholm: Arzan, 2018). 62 Sherko Bekas, Diwan-i Sherko Bekas, (Sweden, 2006), pp. 383–4.

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under the KRG was the context for that transformation. However, this break is represented perhaps none more so than by Now a Girl is My Homeland.

Now a Girl is My Homeland As a book length poem, Now a Girl is My Homeland has many novel qualities.63 It is a fierce criticism of social and political conditions in the Kurdish society under the KRG. Highlighting political incompetence, corruption, injustice, inequality, censorship, and the assassinations of journalists, it also depicts two conflicting masculine and feminine nīshtimāns (homelands). Bekas’s reconceptualization of nīshtimān is not without contradiction. However, the former is patriarchal, represents power, and oversees an oppressive gender order. This worn out, ignorant, and corrupt nīshtimān is contrasted with the feminine nīshtimān which, embodied in the young Rozānā, symbolizes hope and beauty, rests on social values, and displays gender awareness.64 Additionally, Now a Girl is My Homeland reveals a growing chasm between two generations: the generation of the old (national) nīshtimān, and the disillusioned youth, embodied in Kāmarān, who have not experienced what “their fathers have”, but have acquired their own demands for a new era. Thus, the heroes of the past struggle have become strangers.65 Furthermore, marking a literary transition into a postnational era, the poem, Bekas explains, also deconstructs a national self: Now a Girl is My Homeland is about a disgruntled, contemporary young person who is fed up with everything this nīshtimān stands for. It is a book of disappointed hopes and murdered dreams. In fact, what distinguishes this work from my other works is this that [in this one] homeland and [other so-called] sacred things do not continue to exist as sacred anymore [. . .] It leaves behind a homeland to which I had offered all my vigor and spirit. In short, [it is] a deconstruction of all that have constructed me. [Now a Girl is My Homeland] ends the homeland as a sacred code. Obviously, this contrasts with the best part of my texts wherein the homeland maintains a beautiful and pure face. This time I resemble an angry horse whom nobody can tame. Kāmarān and Rozānā represent a history of the past nineteen years [1991–2010], full of disappointment, poverty, and tedium. It consists of two parts: the dark world of Kāmarān and the promising world of Rozānā. In the end Kāmarān is separated from his idiotic father [i.e., the old generation/ nīshtimān] and makes Rozānā his own [new] nīshtimān (emphasis added).66

63 Translations are the author’s unless otherwise stated. Only the original translation of Now a Girl is My Homeland has been presented. 64 Sherko Bekas, Now a Girl is My Homeland trans. into Persian by S. Shahsawari, (2012), pp. 285–286. 65 Ibid., pp. 104–108. 66 Sherko Bekas, “Witayak,” [A Statement], Aso-i Adab [The Horizon of Literature], no. 12 (May 2011).

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Therefore, the poem creates historiographical challenges as it deconstructs national narratives and desanctifies their constitutive linguistic, historical, and geographical components. Homeland had been usually depicted as nīshtimān-ī dāīk (motherland) in Bekas’s poetry. In Dīwān-ī Sherko Bekas, the reader frequently encounters “the mother of freedom”, who is caring, and suffering, but is also identified with the soil, a specific land; she ensures the freedom of a land which, deprived of its rights to determine its fate, is subjugated, and oppressed. In Bekas’s poetry, the motherland unmistakably connotes a territorial entity to which one belongs. The land in question is Kurdistan and its soil features powerfully in his Dīwān. This is exemplified by his 1988 “Khāk” (Soil): With my hand, I reached for the branch The branch recoiled from excruciating pain when as I reached for the branch The stem of the tree cried out in pain when I embraced the trunk of the tree The earth under my feet shook Rocks moaned when I bent down and picked up a handful of the soil The entire Kurdistan let out a wail.67

However, Now a Girl is My Homeland starts with Kāmarān’s pessimistic view of reality. A redefinition of nīshtimān is followed by humanizing it into a [cruel] gardener who lords over the bulbul [nightingale]. In this process, nīshtimān becomes unlovable: My name is Kāmarān (Ku. Successful) The first lie is stuck with my name! In the same way that “Doubt” is called “Confident”, and “Barren” is called “Woodland”! [. . .] When nīshtimān changes into a threatening being And closes all the doors There is nothing left You can call affection. [. . .] My name is a measurement tape and I measure the land I am fed up with. It’s been a few years since the hands of nīshtimān Open and stretch me

67 Bekas, Diwani Sherko Bekas 1974–1986, vol. 2, 574; translated in Sharifi, “A Tribute.”

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From the mountains to the city. I finish repeatedly— Yet there are no ends to their lands!68

After addressing corruption and embezzlement, the text turns its attention to the place of women in society: My name is womenswear. The dress that nīshtimān is embarrassed to wear! This masculine history, this nishtiman of moustache Wouldn’t dress its sun with me, Nor its brooks nor its perfume. Those who dressed me Were sweepers or rubbish bins.69 [. . .] I am female! My entire body is enmeshed in sin and naked, blasphemous questions! Since my birth, the stone of rajm70 has been tied to my feet And nīshtimān spits in my face!71

As regards the place of women in society, the poem’s treatment of the Islamic symbols and topics such as ḥijāb, mināret, and veiling vividly demonstrate two qualities. First, secular nationalism’s perception of these phenomena; and second, the significance of the question of gender in the process of nation-building. The solutions presented here to emancipate women originate in the literary attempts that advocate the concept of the new woman within the modern literary transformation. Simultaneously, they are modelled on secular nationalism of the modern nation-states. Finally, the perception presented in this part of the poem demonstrates the intellectual frustration of secular nationalism in its tension with religious nationalism: A girl is chained to the mināret Forced to be veiled [. . .] My name is Pirch [lock]. My nīshtimān is the head of a woman.

68 Alongside the poem in Kurdish, a Persian translation, Aknun Dokhtarī Mīhan-e Man Ast, published in 2012, is also used for citation. 69 Sherko Bekas, Aknun Dokhtari Mihane Man Ast [Now a Girl is my Homeland], trans. Siamand Shasawari (Sulaimaniya: Sardam 2012), 37. 70 Stoning. 71 Sherko Bekas, Aknun Dokhtari Mihane Man Ast [Now a Girl is my Homeland], trans. Siamand Shasawari (Sulaimaniya: Sardam 2012), 38.

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And surrounded by ḥijāb!72 [. . .] But one day we break the prison And will hand the ḥijāb to a thunderbolt: To burn it!73

What follow denounce a corrupted modernization. A symbolic character of the poem. An unemployed man identifies different characteristics of the erstwhile revolutionary generation that is now in power. Meanwhile, the text maintains that the tension between the old and the new generations continues, while the prolonged civil war of the 1990s between the ruling parties have left an indelible psychological scar on the new generation. Finally, the female homeland becomes an alternative to the old: One day a short unemployed story Saw nīshtimān with his third wife in the Freedom Park. He angrily confronted him: Tell me nīshtimān Imagine you were not my nīshtimān! What more could have happened to me? Maybe I was a dustbin in a street in Baghdad! A dustbin in Kurdistan or Iraq is a dustbin! Maybe in a square in Tehran I was a brush in the hands of a Persian or an Azari shoeshine boy! A shoe brush is a brush, be it a Kurd, a Persian or an Azari!74 [. . .] If you don’t remember Because you were busy smelling the oil and playing democracy, Running out of time because of your [ministerial] seat Travelling abroad, and to the Gulf. . . I remember [. . .] we came across. You had put on your rāparīn75 hat! You scented dawn! You hadn’t become a policeman yet! You weren’t dressed in the uniform of oil yet!76 [. . .] A small bird told his father: My head is not your head. . . I fly differently.

72 Ibid.74. 73 Ibid.76. 74 Ibid.140–141. 75 Rāparīn or the uprising refers to the uprising of the Kurds against the Baʿth regime in 1991. 76 Bekas, Aknun Dokhtari Mihane Man Ast, 141–142.

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My head is full of voices Yours is full of ash. You have surrendered your head to the wind of the past To grandfather, to owls and to the caves.77 My father’s and nīshtimān’s speculations still go on: Is the earth round or flat?78 [. . .] I am a Kurdish horse killed in the Civil War. [. . .] The horse which killed me was my cousin. It was like myself. [. . .] One night my mentor roared: You must kill your cousin I asked why? Because he has deviated from the way we neigh, He replied.79 [. . .] The old nīshtimān only brought the past But Rozānā, the girl, brings the future! [. . .] If the world had sowed the seed of the love of Rozānā and I I am sure that hatred, wars, and revenge Would have never grown. [. . .] Right now, the homeland and I are apart. . . Like a valley without its mountain.80 [. . .] A garden of the rāparīn said: That homeland [in which] we met and kissed everyday has passed.81 [. . .] The bud of a flower said: The homeland would have become a garden of sorrow If he hadn’t seen his springs everyday.82 [. . .] The homeland which hadn’t learnt yet the lies, deceptions, and border smuggling Is no more. [. . .] I was born in a land without land

77 Ibid.87. 78 Ibid.91. 79 Ibid.96–97. 80 Ibid.273. 81 Ibid.274. 82 Ibid.275.

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And opened my eyes amid the smoke and the sound of machine guns [. . .] In my small diary, the name of the party, the smoke, the bandits And the color of death and sacrifice were mingled [. . .] Then a beautiful homeland, the stone which lost his left hand for the freedom of a spring Now with the right hand, he began to steal from the streams [. . .] Those who pursued and caught the death Now dance in front of the banks!83 [. . .] I can’t love a history which smells only of a woman’s hair, I can’t love a mirror, which reflects only blood and vengeance. I can’t love a father who lives and dies for his past. I have found my own nīshtimān: My new homeland is a girl in contrast to your old and sullen one.84

In reconstructing nīshtimān history becomes a contentious ground to deconstruct historical narratives in and save the past from the task of legitimizing the present for the powerful. The poem continues to present new expectations, and ends with a view of the future optimism abound: This history of mine is improvident. Like a coach which is bogged down Up to its horses’ ears in the “past”, and still doesn’t care.85 [. . .] This history of mine Has lost the key of the twelve doors and of the future sun! [. . .] The door of this homeland Is closed on the river’s song, on the street’s cry On the bread and the lovers’ breath! You, An inflated history In the hope of the prides of the mountain and the valley, An inflated honor embodied in myths, stories and lies. . . what do you have? Your glories are only a line of corroded stones A chain of centuries, a sequence of smoke, a dynasty of vague and crippled promises [. . .] From now on, I can’t ever tell you that the sequence of your inflated glories Are sublime.86 [. . .] What else shall I want from a homeland? Except bread and a peaceful corner? [. . .]

83 Ibid.279–281. 84 Ibid.285. 85 Ibid.84. 86 Ibid.84–86.

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An open window to freedom and love [. . .] Thus, one night I broke the door and left forever!87 [. . .] The dusk of the old homeland is imminent. After a while my new homeland “Rozānā” Will rise And together, like two male and female questions Fresh and thirsty Taller than slogans and minārets, Like a brave wind, Over the blasphemous geography and a history of fear [. . .] Arm in arm Will ascend And reach that garden of love and dreams Which neither turns yellow Gets old, nor dies!88

Finally, the closing message of the poem contrasts Bekas’s pre-KRG works. He vigorously attempts to dismantle and rescue its aesthetics and resisting spirit from prominent (national) historical narratives. “Butterfly ValleyiI” ends with, Tonight, one of my dreams will come true And my homeland will come to me Through the eyes, voice, and beard of Nālī [. . .] This time I won’t go back to exile [. . .] I will go back to Goyja mountain with Nālī.89

In contrast, in Now a Girl is My Homeland, there is no going back to a chain of centuries, a sequence of smoke, a dynasty of vague and crippled promises, but ascending towards that garden of love and dream.

Conclusion This chapter’s analysis of the transition of Bekas’s poetry into a postnational one provides four reasons to support that claim. First, Now a Girl Is My Homeland demonstrates that Kurdish literature (poetry) does not merely continue the conventional task of the promotion of national consciousness of the Kurds. A century after 87 Ibid.288. 88 Ibid.288–289. 89 Bekas, Butterfly Valley, 117; Bekas, Diwani Sherko Bekas 1971–1993, vol. 3, 612.

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the modern literary transformation at the turn of the twentieth century, elevating national consciousness, praising a history of resistance, and remembering a history of atrocities are increasingly accompanied by new themes which promote social consciousness. As explained above, this transformation refers to the new global and regional contexts as well as the emergence of a quasi-independent Kurdish state. In this sense, Sherko Bekas’s latest poetry presents epistemic challenges for histories of Kurdish literature (outdated as they are) in modern times to trace, to borrow from Foucault, epistemological acts and thresholds that “suspend the continuous accumulation of knowledge, interrupt its slow development, and force it to enter a new time, and cut it off [. . .] from its original motivations [. . .] towards a new type of rationality and its various effects”.90 Although Bekas never attempted to elevate himself to a philosophical status or be known as an intellectual unlike, for example, Rabindranath Tagore, his latest poetry emphatically signifies a rupture, bestowing, simultaneously, a new role on the literature.91 Furthermore, Kurdish literature of the twentieth century corresponded to a changing context, in the same way it is reacting to, and is reshaping by, a new context under a Kurdish polity. This does not imply that Bekas’s poetry ignored the themes related to modern society: hazhárī or poverty as a recurring motif in his poetry represented a perception of society based on class. It means that promoting social values directly corresponds to the social and political predicaments under a Kurdish state, on the one hand, and to that state’s modernization programs, on the other. The Kurdish (Sorani) literature, first in the KRG and, to an increasing extent, also in Iran, cannot remain as it was before literary works such as Now a Girl is My Homeland. Although the poem is more relevant to the experience of the KRG, the significance of the psychological implications of the KRG’s socio-economic management of its society for Iranian Kurdistan cannot be overestimated. As a result, critical views have replaced initial jubilatory moods among the population expressed in the wake of KRG’s formation. On a more scholarly level, this is accentuated by the emergence of a scholarship whose theoretical framework is increasingly shaped by theoretical achievements of the last few decades, including, in addition to postmodernism and poststructuralism, postcolonial theory, cultural, and gender studies.92 As a consequence, the scholarship has distanced itself from grand narratives, while it has been actively engaging with different aspects of a fast-changing society.93 90 Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge (London: Routledge, 1972), 4. 91 For an example of Tagore’s works see Rabindranath Tagore, Nationalism (London: Penguin Books, 2020). 92 See Shehla Burney, Pedagogy of the Other (New York: Peter Lang, 2012), 1–22. 93 This is reflected in bilingual Kurdish literary journals in Iranian Kurdistan and in academic writings in Persian academic journals published by various Iranian university faculties.

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Second, this transition cannot take place without deconstructing national historical narratives and redefining ingrained national concepts. As an epistemological act, Now a Girl is My Homeland, for example, contains, again to borrow from Foucault, “the displacements and transformations of concepts”.94 Put differently, the acts of deconstruction and redefinition allude to significant socio-economic, political, and cultural transformations. Now a Girl Is My Homeland explicitly connects any act of reconceptualization to specific contexts. A certain constructed past, depicted as a comfort zone for those in power to legitimize the present, is challenged by Bekas who claims that [the old nīshtimān’s] “history is bogged down in the past”, with that history being only embroidered by “inflated glories”, and not being “sublime” anymore. The past, therefore, becomes contentious. Furthermore, as regards concepts, the transformation of nīshtimān from a land fettered by others around it into an oppressive “manly” entity extends into a transformation of the existing outlooks and worldviews based on a critical understanding of gender order. As a result, the alternative is inevitably shaped against an age-old patriarchal system. The third significant aspect pertains to the emergence of new conflicting social and political forces in the process of the nation-building in the KRG. The intellectual tension between Islamic and secular Kurdayeti both of which contain diverse political and social stances reflect different political desires and refer to a context in which the intellectual contest has continued to accompany conflicts in the region. Both kinds of Kurdayeti, diverse as they may be, seek cultural superiority. Not only is Now a Girl is My Nishtiman revealing in this regard, it also sides with a “secularism” which, as explained above, has neither been historically successful, nor culturally effective. Moreover, because of its ambivalence about religion, secular nationalism best suits a model close to authoritarian modernization. Finally, the poem reveals in the life of Kāmarān the ruling groups’ mismanagement of socio-economic, political, and cultural modernization, which has followed regional historical patterns without at least effectively benefiting, for instance, from studies in political economy. Financial corruption and unemployment, and the impoverishment of many while a minority continues to prosper, have become permanent traits of the landscape which has disillusioned the population, especially the younger generation. Indeed, the poem’s stories of political suppression, social injustice, and gender inequality, along with its deep discontent with political and financial embezzlements leave no doubt as to a radical transition into a postnational age for literature. All these aspects invite more scholarly works on the emergence of postnational Kurdish literature in general. Represented by Rozānā, the poem’s proposed alter-

94 Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, 5.

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native can generate hope in a context wherein we have witnessed opposition to authoritarianism and an enjoyment of political and social achievements for which, as the history of social change and transformation confirms, non-state agents of change play a prominent role. Undoubtedly, Sherko Bekas will remain inspirational as an agent of change.

Bibliography Abedini, Hassan Mir. Sad Sal Dastan Newisi Dar Iran. Tehran: Nashre Cheshme, 1998. Afkhami, Gholam Reza. The Life and Times of the Shah. California: University of California Press, 2006. Amin, Qasim. The Liberation of Women [and] the New Woman. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2000. Ansari, Ali. “Iran to 1919.” In The New Cambridge History of Islam, edited by Francis Robinson, 154–179. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Arjomand, Saıd Amir. “Islamic Resurgence and Its Aftermath.” In The New Cambridge History of Iran, edited by Robert W. Hefner. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Ashcroft, Bill. Post-Colonial Transformation. London and New York: Routledge, 2011. Ashna, Omed, ed. Piramerd Vol. 1. Hawler: Aras, 2001. Bauman, Richard, and Charles L. Briggs. Voices of Modernity: Language Ideologies and the Politics of Inequality. Cambridge: University of Cambridge Press, 2003. Bekas, Sherko. Aknun Dokhtari Mihane Man Ast. Translated by Siamand Shasawari. Sulaimaniya: Sardam 2012. Bekas, Sherko. Butterfly Valley. Translated by Choman Hardi. Todmorden: Arc, 2018. Bekas, Sherko. Diwani Sherko Bekas 1968–1980. Vol. 1, Kurdistan: n.p., 2006. Bekas, Sherko. Diwani Sherko Bekas 1971–1993. Vol. vol. 3, Kurdistan: n.p., 2006. Bekas, Sherko. Diwani Sherko Bekas 1974–1986. Vol. vol. 2, Kurdistan: n.p., 2006. Bekas, Sherko. “Witayak.” Aso-i Adab, no. 12 (May 2011). Bendix, Reinhard. “Tradition and Modern Reconsidered.” In Embattled Reason, edited by Reinhard Bendix, 279–320. New Jersey: Transaction, Inc., 1988. Bourdieu, Pierre. Language and Symbolic Power. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991. Brubaker, Roger. Nationalism Reframed: Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Bruinessen, Martin Van. “Ehmed Xani’s Mem U Zin and Its Role in the Emergence of Kurdish National Awareness.” In Essays on the Origins of Kurdish Nationalism, edited by Abbas Vali. California: Mazda Publishers, 2003. Burney, Shehla. Pedagogy of the Other. New York: Peter Lang, 2012. Cabi, Marouf. “Amir Hassanpour and the Advance of Kurdish Social Studies in Iran.” Derwaze: Kurdish Journal of Social Sciences and Humanities, no. 2 ( Apr. 2018): 82–95. Cabi, Marouf. “The Duality of Official and Local: Historical and Intellectual Foundations.” Middle Eastern Studies Published online (Mar. 2021). https://doi.org/10.1080/00263206.2021. 1891892. Cabi, Marouf. “The Roots and the Consequences of the 1979 Iranian Revolution: A Kurdish Perspective.” Middle Eastern Studies 56, no. 3 (2020).

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Cahoone, Lawrence, ed. From Modernism to Postmodernism: An Anthology. Australia: Blackwell Publishing Ltd, 2003. Connell, Raewyn. Gender. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Polity, 2009. Connell, Raewyn. Gender: In World Perspective. Cambridge: Polity, 2009. Dudink, Stefan, Karen Hagemann, and John Tosh, eds. Masculinities in Politics and War: Gendering Modern History. Manchester Manchester University Press, 2004. Escobar, Arturo. Encountering Development: The Making and Unmaking of the Third World. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995. Fanon, Franz. The Wretched of the Earth. England: Penguin Books, 2001. Findley, Carter. “The Ottoman Lands to the Post-First World War Settlement.” In The New Cambridge History of Islam, edited by Francis Robinson, 29–78. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Foucault, Michel. The Archaeology of Knowledge. London: Routledge, 1972. Ghaderi, Farangis. “The Emergence of Modern Kurdish Poetry.”PhD, University of Exeter, 2015. Ghaderi, Farangis, Clémence Scalbert Yücel, and Yaser Hassan Ali, eds. Women’s Voices from Kurdistan: A Selection of Kurdish Poetry. London: Transnational Press London, 2021. Hassanpour, Amir. “Ferment and Fetters in the Study of Kurdish Nationalism.” H-Net Reviews (Sep. 2007). Hassanpour, Amir. Nationalism and Language in Kurdistan, 1918–1985. San Francisco: Mellen Press, 1992. Haynes, Deborah J. Bakhtin Reframed: Interpreting Key Thinkers for the Arts. London: I. B. Tauris, 2013. Heyd, Uriel. The Foundations of Turkish Nationalism: The Life and Teachings of Ziya Göklap. London: Luzac & Company LTD, 1950. Keddie, Nikki R. “Secularism and State: Towards Clarity and Global Comparison.” New Left Review, no. 226 (Nov 1 1997): 21–40. Khani, Ahmad. Mam W Zin. Edited by N. Abdulla. Hawler: Aras, 2008. Ko, Dorothy. “Gender.” In A Concise Companion to History, edited by Ulnika Rublack. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. Koyi, Haji Qadir. Diwan. Stockholm: Nefel, 2004. Kurdistani, Mastoura. Tarikhe Ardalan. Kermanshahan: Bahrami, 1946. Lockman, Zachary. The Contending Visions of the Middle East: The History and Politics of Orientalism. 2nd ed. USA: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Osamn, , “Character as the Key for Decoding in Now a Girl Is My Nishtiman.” 2016, accessed 12/06/2017, http://www.hawpshti.com/ku/?p=10272 (in Kurdish). Pamuk, Orhan. Snow. London Faber, 2004. Pappe, Ilan. The Modern Middle East. New York: Routledge, 2005. Piramerd. Diwani Piramerdi Namir. [the Eternal Piramerd’s Collection of poetry]. Edited by Muhammad Rasul Hawar. Hawler: Shivan, 2007. Qane’, Mariwan Vrya. “Sheko Bekas W Kurdbun.” Roffa, no. 76 (2013). Qobadi, Golrokh, ed. Golzare Shaqayeqha: Nagoftehaye Zanane Mobareze Kordestane Iran. Germany: Noqteh, 2020. Qobadi, Golrokh. Shaqayeqha Bar Sanglakh: Zendegi Wa Zamaneye Yek Zane Kord Az Kordestane Iran. Sweden: N.P., 2015. Sajjadi, ʿAladdin. Mezhui Adabi Kurdi. Sanandaj: Kurdistan, 2013. Schönle, Andreas. Lotman and Cultural Studies: Encounters and Extensions. Madison, Wisconsin University of Wisconsin Press, 2006. Scott, Joan Wallach. “Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis.” In The Feminist History Reader, edited by Sue Morgan, 133–148. New York: Routledge, 2006.

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Sharifi, Amir, “A Tribute to Sherko Bekas the Kurdish Poet of the Century.” accessed July 10, 2021, https://www.rudaw.net/english/opinion/12092013. Tagore, Rabindranath. Nationalism. London: Penguin Books, 2020. Vafaiy, Nahid. Jelwehaye Zendegi. [The Shine of Life]. Stockholm: Arzan, 2018. Vafayi. Vafayi’s Memoirs. Translated by Mohammad Hamabaqi. Iraq, Slemani: Kurdology Centre Pres, 2010. Wiesner-Hanks, Merry E. “Gender.” In Writing Early Modern History, edited by Garthine Walker, 95–113. London: Hodder Arnold, 2005. Wimmer, Andreas. Nationalist Exclusion and Ethnic Conflict: Shadows of Modernity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Zubaida, Sami. Islam, the People and the State: Political Ideas and Movements in the Middle East. New York: I. B. Tauris, 2009.

Azadeh Vatanpour

Re-evaluation of the Yārsān Texts and its Impact on Kurdish Literature Abstract: In this essay, I examine the Yārsān literature and investigate its significance as it pertains to Kurdish literature. The Yarsan, an ethno-religious group who live in the southern reaches of the Kurdish region are believed to be in possession of a collection of the oldest Gurani oral and written literary tradition. While there has been ample research and documentation of Gurani literature’s role and importance in the development of the Yarsan religion, its essential function in the preservation and transmission of cultural, historical, and literal data of the Kurdish people has remained largely unexplored by scholars. Furthermore, the Yarsan community’s efforts to safeguard their texts have often motivated Kurdish studies scholars to singularly categorize this repertoire as purely religious manuscripts. This essay will explore Yarsan literature in three distinct periods: the literature that is believed to have existed before the cycle of Sultan Sahak Barzanji, the influential leader of the Yarsan; the literature that existed during his cycle; and the literature that has prevailed after that time. By analyzing these texts, I aim to show that Yarsan literature has had a significant impact on Yarsan and Kurdish literary history and warrants more in-depth studies from varied perspectives, other than an exclusively religious lens.1

Introduction The Yārsān, a minoritized ethno-religious group, predominantly live in western Iran2 and some parts of northern Iraq. They are also known as the Ahl-e Ḥaqq (People 1 I wish to express my profound appreciation to Ārmān Dakke’i for providing me with invaluable information about the Yārsān community and their significant literature repertoire. The essay could not have been written without his support and guidance. While I wholeheartedly strived to be faithful to his mentorship and comments about Yārsān’s sacred texts, any misrepresentations or misinterpretations are entirely my responsibility. 2 The Yārsānis mostly live in the province of Kermanshah, Kurdistan, Western Azerbaijan, Tehran, and few other cities. For more information regarding their demographic distribution see: Philip G. Kreyenbroek, “The Yāresān of Kurdistan,” Religious Minorities in Kurdistan: Beyond the Mainstream, ed. Khanna Omarkhali (Göttingen: Harrassowiz Verlag, 2014), Because of considerable geographical dispersion and doctrinal and practical diversity, the Yārsān communities cannot be fully presented by a single representative model. My focus in this article will be on the Yārsān community in Sahneh, Kermanshah. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110634686-006

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of the Truth), and the Kāka’i in Iraq. They refer to their faith as din-e yāri (religion of comradeship), and their followers as Yāresāni/Yārsāni/Yārestāni.3 For centuries, Orientalists, scholars, and researchers who were fascinated by the Yārsān wrote copiously about their origins, beliefs, and practices. The Yārsān literature, however, is yet to receive any substantive attention. This has been mainly due to the dominancy of their oral tradition and also the community’s effort in safeguarding these texts. Moreover, while this repertoire is documented primarily for its significance and relevancy to the Yārsān religion, its vital role in the preservation and transmission of cultural, historical, and literal data of diverse groups of people living in the Zagros area, and specially the Kurds, remains largely understudied. The result has been the categorization of this repertoire as purely religious manuscripts and, consequently overlooked by scholars. In his account, written in 1859, Comte de Gobineau (d. 1882) asserts that despite common presumptions, Yārsānis possess a good number of books related to their community, even though he declares that he is not aware of their content.4 Although he misspelled the title, Gobineau introduces “Kitab-e Sanjanar” or “Kitab-e Chahar Malak” (Book of the Four Kings) as the most important of Yārsān literature.5 Years later, Vladimir Minorsky (d. 1966) published several books and articles introducing some of the Yārsān texts. Even though Minorsky’s publications became the primary source for most of the ensuing investigations into the Yārsān community and their religious texts, they list only a few religious texts.6 The Russian Orientalist, Wladimir Ivanow, compiled and edited a collection of Yārsān texts that contained selected manuscripts about the mythical history of the Yārsān and Sultan Sahāk’s7 various

3 When no reference is given, the information provided in this paper is either widely known and accepted or is based on my fieldwork and interviews in Iran. 4 Geoffery Nash. Ed, trans. Daniel O’Donoghue, Comte de Gobineau and Orientalism: Selected Eastern Writings (New York: Routledge, 2009), 54. 5 Geoffery Nash. Ed, trans. Daniel O’Donoghue, Comte de Gobineau and Orientalism: Selected Eastern Writings (New York: Routledge, 2009), 54. Ibid. What Gobineau mentions here should be corrected to kitab-e Saranjam. In the following chapters the mentioned text will be elaborately explained. Also, the translation of The Book of Kings should be corrected to The book of Angels. The word “malak” means Angels in Arabic while “malik” means king. 6 For more information see: Minorsky, V., “Ahl-e Ḥaḳḳ”, in: Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition, Edited by: P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, W.P. Heinrichs. Consulted online on 17 April 2020 . 7 Sultan Sahāk, originally from Barzanja in the Shahrezur region in Iraqi Kurdistan, flourished in the early fifteenth century to become an influential leader of the Yārsān community. Partow Hoshmandrad suggests the thirteenth century to be date when Sultan revealed the Yārsān’s faith. Since there is no historical record available it seems highly impossible to state an exact date. For more information see: Kreyenbroek, “The Yāresān of Kurdistan,” 4–6, and Partow Hooshmandrad, “Life

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manifestations throughout time.8 His publication neither attracted the attention of Iranian and Western scholars, nor that of the Yārsānis and was not accepted as a reliable source. The reason could be the anonymity of the manuscripts’ writers and the unidentified sources of Ivanow’s acquired collection. Furthermore, Ivanow added appendices to the collection that are not part of the Yārsān literature repertoire but belong to the Khāksār Sufi order.9 Mohammad Mokri is among the scholars who have made significant contributions to the study of Yārsān literature. Through the publication of fragments of Kalām-e Sarānjām, such as Le chasseur de Dieu et le Mythe du Roi-Aigle (Dawra-y Dāmyāri) (1967) and La Grande Assemblée des Fidèles de Vérite au tribunal sur le Mont Zagros en Iran (Dawra-y Diwana-Gawra) (1977), Mokri introduced this text along with comments on cultural aspects of the tradition. Jean During, introduced some of Yārsān’s texts, which had not been addressed by previous scholars. In his essay “A critical Survey on Ahl-e Haqq Studies in Europe and Iran,” During gave short descriptions of Yārsān texts, such as Divān-e Shaykh Amir, and Divān-e Qushchi-Oghli which were published in Iran but had not found their way into the works of Western scholars.10 Partow Hooshmandrad dedicates a chapter of her dissertation to the sacred texts of the Yārsān in the Gurān region of the Kermanshah11 province in Iran.12 She focused primarily on the sacred texts and their bond with musical practices of the community. Relying on ethnographic and extensive field research, she introduced important Yārsān texts with information regarding the

as Ritual: Devotional Practices of the Kurdish Ahl-e Haqq of Guran,” Religious Minorities in Kurdistan: Beyond the Mainstream, ed. Khanna Omarkhali (Göttingen: Harrassowiz Verlag, 2014), 49. 8 Ivanow also wrote an extensive introduction about the Yārsān history and beliefs explaining their cosmology, practices, and the influences of other religions and belief systems on this religious group. For more information see: Wladimir Ivanow, Truth-Worshippers of Kurdistan: Ahl-e Haqq Texts (Leiden: Brill, 1953). 9 The Khāksār are large group of dervishes. They are one of the important Shi’ite Sufi orders in Iran. For more information regarding this order, see: Shahrokh Raei, “Khāksār Order in Kurdistan,” in Religious Minorities in Kurdistan: Beyond the Mainstream, ed. Khanna Omarkhali (Harrassowitz Verlag: Wiesbaden, 2014) 10 Jean During, “A Critical Survey on Ahl-e Haqq Studies in Europe and Iran,” Alevi Identity: Cultural, Religious and Social Perspectives, ed. Tord Olsson, Elisabeth Özclalga, and Catharina Raudvere (London: Routledge, 2005), 125–29. Different versions of Divān-e Shaykh Amir and Divān-e Qushchi-Oghli are available among Yārsānis, such as N. Chehel Amirān, ed. Daftar-e Kalamāt-e Turki (2003), MS, Daftar-e Kalām-e Haḍrat-e Shaykh Amir, copied in Sahneh, Kermanshah, by the effort of Hussain Ruhtāfi, 2000. However, access to these resources are mostly restricted to the Yārsānis. 11 In this paper, well-known geographical names are written in their common forms and the less familiar ones are transliterated. 12 Partow Hooshmandrad, “Performing the Belief: Sacred Musical Practice of the Kurdish Ahl-e Haqq of Guran,” (PhD diss., University of California, 2004).

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languages, dialects, and the poetic structure of this repertoire from the Yārsān perspective. Nonetheless, the majority of Yārsān texts and their contents remain unrecognized and unstudied in these academic works. Since most of these texts are considered sacred, accessibility is limited, and those few texts that have been published under the supervision of Yārsān religious figures remain unstudied almost in their entirety.13 At present, a thorough study of Yārsān literature would be considered a futile task since the various manuscripts needed are held in possession of Yārsān families—and have not been disclosed for public consumption. Moreover, the difficult task of studying and classifying this repertoire of literature is compounded by the scarcity of information about the genesis and the subsequent developments of Yārsān texts. Nonetheless, a considerable number of Yārsān texts have come to light in recent years that allow for a provisional categorization and description. As such, one of the premises of the current essay is to introduce and explore accessible Yārsān literature repertoire and highlight their significance so to better understand the cultural and religious dimensions of the Yārsān community. It should be emphasized that the Yārsān tradition and religious belief systems are more than just literature; and include other aspects that do not make use of written text. Their literature reportoire can complement historical, philological, and cultural studies of the community; and can afford a better understanding of their traditions. Furthermore, the aim of exploring the texts of the Yārsān community is to emphasize their inclusion as a part of the broader context of Kurdish literature. To take this step, the following discussion will introduce the Yārsān literature repertoire in two categories: the religious and non-religious with the latter divided into 1) Shāhnāmeh literature; and 2) the production of other poets.

13 There are several Persian publications of the Yārsān texts that have been extensively cited as primary sources. One of these efforts took place by Ṣiddiq Ṣafizādeh Burke’i, who published a translation of the Kalām-e Saranjām with a commentary on the Yārsān’s terminologies in 1996. However, recent studies of the text and its comparison with Ṣafizādeh’s translation reveals many misinterpretations and manipulations to the Saranjām’s text. Ṣafizādeh added a chapter to the end of the book about the Yārsān’s customs and rituals based on his perception of the Nur ʿAli iIlāhi (a well-known religious figure) book, Burhān al-Ḥaqq, without citing his name and work. Further, by omitting some parts of the text and adding his own words as part of the original text, Safizādeh’s book caused misrepresentation of the Yārsān’s beliefs and thoughts to show their religion is based on Shi’ite Islam.

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The Yārsān’s Religious Literature A large corpus of the Yārsān literature consists of sacred verses that convey the religious knowledge of the community. While these texts contain some prose, the dominant literary form is poetry. These sacred poems, known as kalāms (lit. words, discourses), are predominantly written in a unique version of the literary Gurāni dialect.14 However, there are also texts with a mixture of Gurāni and other Kurdish dialects of the Gurān, Qalkhāni, Sanjābi regions of Kermanshah, Luri Kurdish dialect, Sorani, and Turkish. A few Persian verses are also seen in the texts.15 Most kalāms are based on a ten-syllable structure. However, that number is not consistent as there are verses with either less, or more, syllables. According to Yārsān belief, these kalāms are the divine sirr (mystery) that have been orally transmitted by the pirs (spiritual leaders) and are faithfully memorized and preserved among the eleven Yārsān khāndāns (families).16 Traditionally, the critical task of studying, interpreting, and performing the sacred texts have been assigned to trained kalāmkhwāns (kalām reciters) in respective families.17 These khāndāns continue to live in different regions, with their own respective cultures. This, most probably, was 14 Farangis Ghaderi delves into the differences between Gurāni and Hawrāmi and explains while Gurāni is an established label in Western literature, it is not the designation that people use in the region. Instead they refer to their dialect as Hawrāmi. Mackenzie argues that Gurāni should be used as a generic label for a group of northwest Iranian dialects. Since the Yārsān literature are not written in homogenous dialects, I prefer to use the term “Gurāni” in this essay as a generic term to refer to the collection of dialects that have been used for writing the Yārsān’s literature. For more information regarding Gurāni and Hawrāmi see: Farangis Ghaderi, “The literary Legacy of the Ardalans,” Kurdish Studies 5, no. 1 (2017): 35. For information regarding Gurāni, see: D. N. Mackenzie, “Encyclopedia Iranica, online edition, 2002, available at: https://iranicaonline.org/articles/gurani (Accessed on July 17, 2020). 15 Hooshmandrad, “Life as Ritual,” 54. The dialect used in the Yārsān kalāms is not completely uniformed. For example, Daftar-e Hazrat-e ‘Ābidin is written in the Sorani dialect mixed with small segments in the Gurāni dialect. Also, some kalāms seems to be written down in a much older Hawrāmi dialects than others. 16 The seven khāndān came to existence at the time of Sultan Sahāk in the fifteenth century. Based on kalām-e Saranjām, their names are: 1) khāndān Ḥaḍrat-e Seyyed Muhammad, 2) khāndān Ḥaḍrat-e Seyyed Abu al-Vafā, 3) khāndān Ḥaḍrat-e Seyyed Ahmad al-Mir, 4) khāndān Ḥaḍrat -e Seyyed Musṭafā, 5) khāndān Ḥaḍrat-e Seyyed Bābu ‘Isi, 6) khāndān Ḥaḍrat-e Shaykh Shahāb al-Din, and 7) khāndān Ḥaḍrat -e Shaykh Habib Shāh. The rest were formed, subsequently, by some prominent religious figures within these families who are believed to be manifestations of the Divine Essence (dhāt). The other four families are: 1) khāndān Ḥaḍrat-e Shāh Ḥayās, 2) khāndān Ḥaḍrat -e Ḏulnuri, 3) khāndān Ḥaḍrat-e Shāh Ibrāhim, and 4) khāndān Ḥaḍrat-e Seyyed Khāmush. 17 Philip G. Kreyenbroek, “Orality and Religion in Kurdistan: the Yezidi and Ahl-e Haqq Traditions,” A History of Persian Literature XVIII, ed. Philip G. Kreyenbroek, and Ulrich Marzolph (London & New York: I. B. Tauris, 2010), 84.

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a major impetus for formation of varying traditions within the Yārsān community. Consequently, it has resulted in the development of variations of preserved kalāms. Furthermore, most khāndāns continue to solemnly safeguard their kalāms from reaching the hands of outsiders. This diligence in securing their kalāms, limited its availability to other khāndāns and regions, thus producing different lists of existing kalāms. Herein, the focus is on the repertoire of kalāms of the Yārsānis in the Sahneh region of Kermanshah province. Historically, kalāms were transmitted orally and generationally but eventually started to be penned and preserved by individuals who handwrote the manuscripts. In recent years, a considerable number of these handwritten manuscripts were duplicated and published for the community’s use. There is dispute as to the exact date of the textual kalām transmissions. The Yārsānis believe that kalām-e Saranjām was the first kalām penned in the late fourteenth or early fifteenth century by the “golden pen” of Pir Musi, one of the haftan (the seven) of the Sultan Sahāk cycle.18 Some note that these sacred texts date back to as recent as the eighteenth century.19 Philip Kreyenbroek believes that one cannot date back any written documents prior to the nineteenth century.20 Since kalāms do not include the date of the writing, with the added on difficulty of constructing the historical narrative of the Yārsān, it is not possible to validly determine an exact date. While preservation of the Yārsān texts by means of writing and printing has increased in recent years, the tradition still heavily relies on orality. The interdependency of most of the kalāms with oral religious narratives hinders research that is not mindful of the said thematic correspondence.21 The various collections of kalāms known as daftars are linked with each other, and even though each kalām collection seems to be unique, they use interdependent names, concepts and terminologies that bind them together. As such, reading and understanding all of the

18 Haftan or haft-tan refers to seven spirits of the Yārsān religion who accompany the Divine. The names of the Haftan are: Pir Benyāmin, Pi Dāwved, Pir Musi, Musṭafā, Ramzbār, Bābā Yādegār, and Shāh Ibrāhim. The Yārsānis hold belief in the notion of history as cyclical as well as linear. They believe that the first complete earthly cycle (dawra) of their religion manifestation happened when the representative of all haftan, Sultan Sahāk, revealed the faith in Hawrāmānāt in the Kurdish region. The manifestation of the first historical cycle and other subsequent cycles are the representation of the act of Creation. For more information regarding the different cycles, see: Kreyenbroek, “The Yāresān of Kurdistan,”6. 19 For instance, see: Ziba Mir-Hosseini, “Inner Truth and Outer History: The Two Worlds of the Ahl-e Haqq of Kurdistan,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 26, no. 2 (1994), 282. 20 See Kreyenbroek, “Orality and Religion in Kurdistan,” 86. 21 To be able to understand the meaning of the kalām, one should be familiar with the Yārsān religious narratives, myths, and their prominent religious figures. For more on the Yārsān narratives and storyline, see Kreyenbroek, “Orality and Religion in Kurdistan,” 75–6.

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daftars, on both the external and spiritual level, becomes a prerequisite for comprehending and deciphering the meaning of each sacred text. As kalāms do not contain historical dates, the names of historical figures within them help approximate the time of origination. For instance, in Kalām-e Saranjām, the narrative of the Shaykh Ṣafi al-Din Ardebili’s (d. 1334) meeting with Sultan Sahāk has led to speculations as to the Sultan’s cycle22 time and the dates of the kalāms associated with that cycle. Yārsān sacred literature can plausibly be divided into three periods: kalāms believed to have revealed before Perdiwar23 (a cycle attributed to Sultan Sahāk), Perdiwari kalāms from the cycle of Sultan, and kalāms after that time.

Pre-Perdiwar Kalāms Kalāms24 believed to have existed before Perdiwar period consist of six daftars that came to existence in the following linear, chronological cycles: kalām-e Dawra-ye Bābā Buhlul (kalām of Bābā Buhlul’s cycle), kalām-e Dawra-ye Bābā Jalil (kalām of Bābā Jalil’s cycle), kalām-e Dawra-ye Bābā Sarhang (kalām of Bābā Sarhang cycle), kalām-e Dawra-ye Shāh Khwashin (kalām f Shāh Khwashin cycle), kalām-e Dawra-ye Bābā Nāwus (kalām of Bābā Nāwus cycle), and kalām-e Dawra-ye Barzanja (kalām of Barzanja cycle).25 Each kalām represents a gathering of the Chwār Tan (“the Four” that refer to Pir Musi, Pir Benyāmin, Pir Dāwud, and Pir Musṭafā), and their objective of forming a new cycle to search for Sultan and prepare for his earthly manifestation. These written kalāms are in the form of dialogues in which Sultan and other spirits express the Yārsān’s worldview, the manifestation of the Divine and his companions, the principles of Yārsān’s beliefs, sacred historical events, and the tenets of religious and spiritual path. Even though these kalāms seem simple, it is difficult to extract their extensive body of wisdom due to their secretive and coded language.

22 Sultan’s cycle refers to the first complete earthly cycle (dawra) starting with Sultan Sahāk’s revelation of the faith in Hawrāmānāt in the Kurdish region. 23 Pirdiwar is a holy site in the Sheykhan village in the Hawrāmānāt Kurdish region of Kirmānshāh province. The site is highly important for the Yārsānis since it was the residence of Sultan Sahāk. The Pirdiwar cycle refers to the period that Sultan Sahāk was residing in the region. 24 The following section will introduce known kalāms from these periods without dates as it is not possible to confirm exact dates for the original manuscripts. 25 Seyyed Fazlullāh Dakke’i, “Introduction,” Divān-e Ḥaḍrat -e Bābā Nāwus (Tehran: Nashr thālith, 2016), 16.

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The kalām associated with the first cycle is Dawra-ye Bābā Buhlul. Kalām-e Bābā Buhlul consists of fourteen bands or khishts (stanzas) written in Gurāni with two khishts in Persian.26 This kalām introduces Bābā Buhlul as the wisest figure in the world even though people perceive him a madman. It engages this holy individual who intentionally cloaks himself with the garb of insanity and buffoonery.27 He introduces himself as the Divine of the two worlds (rabb al-‘ālamin) and alludes lucidly to his four malaks (four angels) and their manifestations in Nujum (Pir Musi), Ṣālih (Musṭafā), Rajab (Pir Dāwud), and Bābā Lura (Pir Benyāmin). The earliest account of the Jam, a ritual of the blessed food, is found in kalām-e Bābā Buhlul. Jam, in this context, and as is found in the Yārsān belief system, is performed to invoke the presence of Sultan through offerings of the blessed food—and occasionally musical performances.28 This summoning of Sultan’s presence is metaphorically explained in the seventh khisht where Jam offerings, invocations, and prayers become lures in hunting for the Sultan. It should be noted that Kalām-e Bābā Buhlul seems to be somewhat distorted and partially destroyed. The second daftar identifies with Dawra-ye Bābā Jalil. Information about the life of Bābā Jalil is scarce: only that he manifested and resided in Dudān (or Dawdān) village, in Kermanshah province. Also, there is an account documented in kalām-e Zulāl Zulāl which indicates that Bābā Jalil lived before the Perdiwar period.29 The kalām introduces the haftan that accompanied him during this cycle as Mirzā Qoli (manifestation of Pir Benyāmin), Bagtar (Pir Dāwud), Saman Sāra (Pir Musi), Sā’i(Mosṭafā), and Navā (Pir Ramzbār).30 A considerable number of verses of the twenty-seven khishts of the Bābā Jalil’s kalāms have esoteric dimensions and highlight the agonizing longing for Sultan’s manifestation. There is also a khisht in which

26 MS Daftar-e Bābā Buhlul, copied in Sahneh, Kirmānshāh, by the effort of Ghulām Rezā Khān Sheydā’i Yazdi. No date. 27 Bābā Buhlul or Buhlul-e Māhi can be considered an uqalā al-majānin or “rational insane,” also known as a “wise fool.” He is believed to be the same figure as Abu Wuhayb Buhlul ibn ‘Amr al-Majnun al-Kufi, who lived during the reign of caliph Harun al-Rashid (d.809). He is known as a religious god-fearing figure who did not hesitate to show his exhortations to the highest authority in unconventional ways. For more information see: Michael W. Dols, Majnun: The Madman in Medieval Islamic Society, ed. Diana E. Immisch (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2011), 345–359. However, there are no accounts in kalāms to confirm the assertion that they are the same figure. 28 Jam is a religious obligation at particular times during the year. Throughout the year, however, is a common practice. For more detailed discussion about Jam, see: Hooshmandrad, “Life as Ritual,” 56–7. 29 Kalām-e Zulāl Zulāl is part of Kalām-e Saranjām that is composed by Bābā Yadigār and Shāh Ibrahim. They name all their human manifestations in each circle from the time of Creation until the manifestation of Sultan Sahāk. 30 Tayyeb Taheri, ed. Saranjām: Majmu’ye Kalāmhaye Yārsān (Erbil: Ārās, 2007), 64.

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Bagtar affirms that in pre-eternity his name was Sheytān (devil), and his evilness is reserved for those who show enmity to Sultan Sahāk. The authenticity of this verse, however, is debated.31 The next daftar belongs to Bābā Sarhang, which is composed of forty-nine khishts.32 At the beginning of the kalam Bābā Sarhang acknowledges being the yurt33 of Sultan Sahāk’s essence (dhāt).34 The central theme of this kalām is a narration about Bābā Sarhang’s disputes and arguments with Sunnis in the village of Dudān (Dawdān) over what seems to be the revelation of his faith to the people. However, it appears that the dispute between Bābā Sarhang and his dervishes35 with local Sunnis was not about religious belief and orientation, but rather arose from uncertainty and apprehension of Sunni religious figures about surrendering land ownership to Bābā Sarhang and his followers. The kalām describes the debate between the two groups in Awrāmān (Kurdish: Hawrāmān),36 with the regional governor Sabura presiding.37 With the backing of Garchak, the manifestation of Pir Dāwud, Bābā Sarhang and his followers manage to be triumphant in the debate and resoundingly prove the righteousness of their belief. In addition to having theological, ontological, and epistemological significance concerning miracles, the Bābā Sarhang kalām is a valuable source for understanding social and historical changes, developments, and disputes in the region.

31 Ibid, 66. Also, See: During, “A Critical Survey on Ahl-e Haqq,” 133. The Yārsānis are also labeled as devil-worshipers (sheyṭān-parast), stigmatizing name giving to them by their Muslim neighbors. For instance, see: Encyclopedia of Shi’ism, 2 vols. s.v. “Ahl-e Haqq,” Tehran: Hekmat, 1990. Martin van Bruinessen suggests that the Yārsānis in Gurān region do not believe in Satan’s evil nature in a struggle for power with the Divine. However, they believe in the real existence of inner struggle (jang-e bāteni) between light and darkness. Furthermore, he refuses to accept that the Yārsānis took this positive appreciation of the Satan through contact with Yezidis. For more detailed information see: Martin van Bruinessen, “Veneration of Satan among the Ahl-e Haqq of the Guran region,” Journal of Kurdish Studies, no. 3–4 (2014): 6–41. 32 MS Kalām-e Bābā Sarhang, copied in Sahneh, Kirmānshāh, By the effort of Ghulām Rezā Khān Sheydā’i Yazdi. No date. 33 Yurt, dun, or jāme, literary means “cloth, dress,” refers to the cyclic view of life among the Yārsān in which spirits manifest and reappear in different forms. 34 MS Daftar-e Bābā Sarhang, copied in Sahneh, Kirmānshāh, By the effort of Ghulām Rezā Khān Sheydā’i Yazdi. No date. 35 The kalām refers to Bābā Sarhang’s followers as “dervishes”. However, it does not give us any definition and description of who are referred to as dervishes. 36 Khisht no. 13. Awrāmān or Hawrāmān (also known as Hawrāmānāt) is a mountainous region located between two provinces of Kurdistan and Kirmānshāh in Iran and north-eastern Kurdistan region in Iraq. 37 Khisht no. 13. Awrāmān or Hawrāmān.

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The next daftar, Kalām-e Dawra-ye Shāh Khwashin, appears in the cycle of Mobārak Shāh Lorestāni, known as Shāh Khwashin. According to the kalām, he is also known as Zarda Savār (a person who rides a horse named Zarda).38 The Yārsān believe that Shāh Khwashin is the first Yārsāni leader to establish the Nohṣad Nohṣada musical ensemble (Nine-Hundred Nine-Hundred ensemble) comprising of his followers. It goes without saying that Yārsān consider music an essential part of the group’s religion and rituals.39 His action is believed to be the reason behind the sanctity and presence of music in the Yārsān ritual. Linguistically, this kalām is significant in that it is uttered in different languages and dialects, including Gurāni, Persian, and Luri. The kalām starts with the miracle birth of Shāh Khwashin from a virgin named Māmā Jalāla. The kalām explains how his mother, Māmā Jalāla, began to carry the Divine light, and speaks of her eventual expulsion from her hometown. However, Kākā Radā (the manifestation of Pir Benyāmin) assures her that she is pregnant with the God of two worlds (xudā-ye har do jahānā). Shāh Khwashin, then, starts to speak at an early age and confirms his divine essence and names himself Khwashin: Māmām Jalāla, kākām Rangina Dun wa dun āmām, čina wa čina My mother is Jalāla, my father is Rangin I have come here period by period.40

38 First time this attribute is mentioned in thirty-seventieth khisht in Kalām-e Dawra-ye Shāh Khwashin: xwašin-e binā, xwašin-e binā/ šāh-e zarda suwār, xwašin-e binā (O insightful Khwashin, o insightful Khwashin/ the king who rides zarda, o insightful Khwashin.) See: MS Kalām-e Dawra-ye Shāh Khwashin, copied in Sahneh, Kermanshah, by the effort of Ghulām Rezā Khān Sheydā’i Yazdi. No date. 39 In the Shāh Khwashin kalām the reference to the Nine-Hundred Nine-Hundred assembly group is given without any description as to who they are. However, there are descriptions of this group in Daftar-e Nawruz and Daftar-e Taymur Bānyārāni. In the kalām of Taymur Bānyārāni, an important religious figure who is believed to be the holder of the divine essence (dhāt), describes an assembly that consists of musicians who play various instruments such as tār (a long-necked lute), kamanče(a bowed stringed instrument), dayere (medium-sized frame drum), karnay (long wind instrument). Besides its beauty, these khishts are important for studying the regional history of music, the importance of music in religious rituals, instruments and their regional distributions. The kalāms, however, is not clear whether the Nuhsad ensemble existed in a divine consciousness or present in physical form. For more information regarding this, see: Hooshamndrad, “Performing the Belief,” 51–2. 40 MS Kalām-e Dawra-ye Shāh Khwashin, copied in Sahneh, Kermanshah, by the effort of Ghulām Rezā Khān Sheydā’i Yazdi. Khisht no. 6. All translations from Gurāni are mine unless otherwise stated.

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The reference to “dun wa dun” or “dun-ā-dun,” the cyclic migration of essence and spirits in physical and divine time, is a significant concept at the heart of Yārsān belief. “Dun-ā-dun”, which literarily means from a garment to another garment, denotes the migration of soul from one body to another in pursuit of perfection. A substantial number of khishts in Shāh Khwashin’s kalām refer to the relationship between Bābā Tāher (11th c.)—as a manifestation of one of the haftan (Bābā Yādegār)—in this cycle with Shāh Khwashin. As there is no historical evidence regarding Bābā Tāher’s life, it is difficult to construe him as the famous Sufi poet from the Hamadan region (d. 1032).41 Furthermore, Bābā Tāher’s do-beyti repertoire (literary “two-couplet”)42 in the kalām are linguistically important in understanding the developments, changes, and fusions of local dialects and languages when compared with the rest of Bābā Tāher’s poems—outside of the context of Yārsān kalāms. These couplets, eloquent in their simplicity and humility, are dynamic dialogues between a lover and his Beloved, Shāh Khwashin. The couplets documented in Daftar-e Bābā Khwashin, treat the same themes as the couplets collected in the Divān of Bābā Tāher. However, further study is needed to extract the Yārsān belief system from the dialogic style employed between Shāh Khwashin and Bābā Tāher in Daftar-e Bābā Khwashin. The Shāh Khwashįn kalām entails important khishts that represent the pillars of the Yārsān religion and the ethos of the community. He advises the Yārsānis towards a path of righteousness and truthfulness, and introduces the four pillars of their belief: rāsti (truthfulness), pāki([spiritual]purity), nisti (non-existence [of the ego]), and radā (acceptance [of Sultan’s Will]).43 Considering the religious guidance, 41 The personal details of Bābā Tāher’s life, the date of birth and death, and the language used in his poems have an aura of ambiguity. There are no historical backgrounds from any source about his life and the existing information about his life are based on assumptions. The language is used in his du-beytis are also untraceable. While some scholars identify it as Luri, other theories suggest that the language of these poems related to Gurāni or to the Middle Pahlavi dialect. For more information regarding Bābā Tāher’s life and his poems see: L. P. Elwell-Sutton,“BĀBĀ ṬĀHER ʿORYĀN,” Encyclopedia Iranica, 2011, available at https://iranicaonline.org/articles/baba-taher-oryan 42 Du-beytis is similar to rubā’i (quatrain) but it has simpler meter and is widely used in local dialect. 43 MS Kalām-e Dawra-ye Shāh Khwashin, copied in Sahneh, Kermanshah, by the effort of Ghulām Rezā Khān Sheydā’i Yazdi. khisht no. 115. Radā has perplexing meaning and can implies different meanings. It might be translated as submission to the Divine’s will, being humble, forgiving, pure in your words and actions with all chivalry behaviors, or self-sacrificing in serving and helping human beings. The information I acquired during the fieldwork shows that my Yārsānis interlocuters consider all these meanings when translating and interpreting the concept of “radā.” Also see: Kreyenbroek, “The Yāresān of Kurdistan,” 6, and Hooshamndrad, “Performing the Belief,” 5. The Yārsān four pillars is cited in the following khisht in Shāh Khwashįn kalām, 115: “Yārsān awrāh, Yārsān awrāh/ rāy-e ḥaqq rāsian birānān awrā/ wa pāki rāsti nisti u radā/ qadam wa qadam tā wa

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theological concepts, and spiritual insights and components present in this kalām, it can be said that Shāh Khwashin’s cycle is the start point of the Yārsān’s faith. The fifth cycle belongs to Bābā Nāwus, who is believed to have manifested in the village of Sargat in Sulaymaniyah, Iraq.44 Comparatively, far less attention has been afforded to Daftar-e Bābā Nāwus, although it is one of the most significant Yārsān religious texts. The main objective of this cycle is to continue the foundational construction of the yāri religious thoughts and ideas that began during the Shāh Khwashin cycle, as well as initial explanation and interpretation of key concepts of the four pillars of the Yārsān faith. The construction and establishment of the faith are the groundwork for the Divine, manifested in the garment of Bābā Nāwus: they are a testament to his manifestation, and reveal din-e yāri in the Perdiwar cycle.45 The Bābā Nāwus kalām is an essential text for understanding the foundational steps in the rite of initiation in Yārsān theology, known as shart wa shun (covenant and spiritual journey). The Yārsān belief system is rooted in a master-disciple relationship.46 During the initiation rite of sar sepordan “submitting one’s head,” i.e., subservience, an individual ritually accepts a pir as their spiritual master through a pact and professes fealty to their religion.47 This initiation process is a renewal of the primordial covenant between Sultan and his creation (bayāwbas).48 Kalām-e Bābā Nāwus covers the primary steps in forming the concepts of shart and eqrār, and spreading the message to Yārsānis to join the circle of the Sultan by making this same pact.49 Furthermore, Sultan testifies about his manifestation in the Perdiwar period, prophesying his victory over “enemies”.50 While the metaphorical and symbolic language of the Bābā Nāwus kalām makes the understanding of this sacred text quite strained, the oral explanations and interpretations of myths, legends, narratives, and religious beliefs help to somewhat decode the underlying meanings. The kalām also includes information about the Yārsān folk’s origins myth, colorimetry, astronomy, and planetary science. It also

manzilgā.” (O Yārsān followers, O Yārsān followers, the path toward the Truth is the path of righteousness. Follow the path of [spiritual] purity, truthfulness, non-existence, and radā. step by step to reach eternal destination). 44 Seyyed Fazlullah Dakke’i, ed. Divān-e Ḥaḍrat -e Bābā Nāwus (Tehran:Nashr-e Ṯāliṯ, 2016), 15. 45 Ibid, 246. 46 Ibid, 16. 47 H. Helm, “Ahl-e Haqq,” Encyclopedia Iranica, 1882, I/6, 635–637, available online at http://www. iranicaonline.org/articles/ahl-e-haqq-people (accessed on 10 August 2020). In the yāri beliefs two bayāwbas (covenant between Sultan and his creation) took place: one in primordial period and the other the time of the manifestation of Sultan Sahāk during the Pirdiwar period. 48 H. Helm, “Ahl-e Haqq,” Encyclopedia Iranica, 1882, I/6, 635–637. 49 For some instances see: Dakke’i, ed. Divān-e Ḥaḍrat-e Bābā Nawus, 140, 242–3, 427–8. 50 Ibid, see instances: khishts 1, 8, 15, 36.

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provides a unique opportunity to extract information regarding the worldviews of the Yārsān in particular, and the region’s habitants in general and how they perceived, interpreted, and understood the nature—and the purpose—of the world. The last pre-Perdiwar cycle is Dawra-ye Barzanja, which is one of the most crucial periods due to the birth of Sultan Sahāk, in human form, in Barzanja, a township in Sulaymaniyah.51 Kalām-e Barzanja encompasses the narratives surrounding the search for Sultan by the Chahār Darvish (“the Four Dervishes”),52 the miraculous birth of Sultan Sahāk, his migration from Barzanja to Perdiwar, and the establishment of the yāri religion, and its laws. It is also a valuable source for understanding the philosophical foundations of the Yārsān religious observances, practices, and ethical and moral codes. Kalām-e Barzanja signifies the transition of the speculative theology of Bābā Nāwus cycle into the practical religious era of Perdiwar.53 The doctrinal and philosophical basis of the yāri religion in this kalām, such as the status of the haftan, the pirs, and their duties and obligations, are valuable both sociologically, and from a socio-structural point of view, as concerns the community in that era. Kalām-e Barzanja is a treasure trove of figurative languages, especially similes and metaphors. These complex literary forms offer lucid descriptions of religious concepts and obligations. In the fifth khisht of the kalām, for example, Dervish Āstā explains the relationship between Sultan and pirs: pādšāh šaman, hāpir šamdānan pādšāh šaman šam’ o šamdāniaw yak raqaman šam’ natuy fānus šu’laš na daman ar fānus diyār bu šam’ natuš jaman šawqiš jalābaxš tārik u taman54 The king (Sultan) is a candle And the pir is [his] candleholder, the King is a candle The candle and the candleholder complement one another The candle in the lantern (candleholder) greatly illumines If the lantern can be reached, the candle inside [the lantern] can also be found. [It is in this way] that the radiance of his manifestation will entirely illuminate the darkness.

51 Seyyed Amrullāh Shāh Ibrāhimi, Barzanja: Matn-e Kalāmi wa Tarjume wa Sharh-e Ikhtisāriye Dawra-ye Barzanja wa Ibtidāyi-e Dawra-ye Pirdiwar (Sahneh, 2009), 1. 52 The Four Dervishes are the manifestations of four of the haftan: Dervish Ruḥtāf (the manifestation of Pir Benyāmin), Dervish Kashkul (the manifestation of Pir Dāwud), Dervish Āstā (the manifestation of Pir Ramzbār), and Dervish Qalam (the manifestation of Musṭafā). 53 For instance see: Shāh Ibrāhimi, Barzanja, khisht no. 74 where Gardun (the manifestation of Bābā Yādegār) asks Sultan to reveal his religion in order that his followers practice the Jam ritual and the three-day fasting. 54 Shāh Ibrāhimi, Barzanja, 14.

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Similar similes and metaphors, such as the correlatives between a flower and a nightingale, the sea and a fish, a seed and the ground, symbolizing the relationship between the Sultan and pir give the kalām a literary dimension that is conducive to a particularly enticing esthetic effect.

Perdiwari Kalāms The Perdiwar cycle began when Sultan Sahāk migrated from Barzanja and settled down in Perdiwar. All kalāms that came to life in this period are referred to as kalām-e Dawra-ye Pirdiwar or kalām-e Perdiwari. These kalāms can be subcategorized into three periods: 1) the cycle of Sultan Sahāk’s manifestation, 2) the cycle of Shāh Ebrāhim and Bābā Yādegār succession, and 3) the cycle of the second manifestation of Sultan in the garment of Veysqoli, also known as Qermezi. Saranjām or Daftar-e Perdiwari is the name allocated to the collection of all these kalāms. Saranjām which is the most significant source of religious laws and regulations contains two types of kalām: 1) kalāms uttered by the Sultan, and 2) kalāms uttered after the reign of the Sultan. However, the subjects of the two types of kalām are related to the Perdiwar kalāms, such as Kalām-e Qushchi Uqli (in Turkish), Dawra-ye Yārān Qawaltās, and Dawra-ye Khazāneh. The formation and development of the yāri religion, the manifestation of religious figures, and instructions for observing yāri practices, especially the Jam ritual as the beating heart of the Yārsān belief practice, are subjects Kalām-e Saranjām behooves. Studying and exploring the aforesaid subjects also reveals some instances where the yāri religion intersected with regional and ancient belief systems and religions. The religious identity of the Yārsān is expressed and inculcated in Kalām-e Saranjām through myth, narratives, practices, and ways of distinguishing the yāri faith followers from outsiders. The cosmological myth and the hierophany of the Divine to “the Pearl” (dorr) in the eternal existence, among other narratives and myths, is an excellent lead in investigating the origin and genesis of this myth in older traditions. Some of Kalām-e Saranjām chapters are Dawra-ye Haftan, Dawra-ye Haftavān, Dawra-ye Haft Khalifeh, Dawra-ye Haft Kuzechi, Dowra-ya Haft Sāzchi, Dawra-ye Haft Saqā, Dawra-ye Khādim, Dawra-ye Haft Guyandeh, Haft Haft, Chehel Tan, Shast u Shish Qolām, Haftād o Do Pir, Nawad o Noh Pir-e Shāhu. Dawra-ye ‘Ābedin-e Jāf, Bārgah Bārgah, Dāmyār Dāmyār, Qushchi Uqli, Khazāneh.55

55 While the list of Saranjām kalāms is longer as mentioned in this essay, I only covered kalāms that are more frequently cited and recited by the community. The decision to not include all names are made only because of space restriction of the essay.

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Of particular note are 1) there is no one authoritative Saranjām text. Each khāndān has preserved one or more manuscripts that sometimes, either contain, or lack kalāms that may or may not exist in manuscripts held by other families. Also, Saranjām was previously divided into six parts, imitating the classification of Avesta, the Zoroastrian sacred text.56 Since many manuscripts have come to light in contemporary times and have found their way into researchers’ collections, the mentioned division is no longer valid. 2) The second consideration is the inauthenticity and distortion of some kalāms in the Saranjām, rating its own further discussion.57 Just to briefly touch upon the subject, Hooshmandrad notes that the Yārsānis of Gurān region believe that Kalām-e ‘Ābedin is the most distorted daftar of all the known kalāms in the region.58 Some also consider Kalām-e Kamkanān, included in Saranjām, unauthentic.59

Post-Perdiwar Kalāms The post-Perdiwar kalāms are connected with the names of the individuals who are manifestations of the Sultan or one of the haftan. The main objective of the post-Perdiwar kalāms is to interpret and explain the yāri religious laws, moral codes, and regulations that were revealed and established during the time of Sultan Sahāk. The kalāms associated with this period include Kalām-e Mohammad Bayg, Kalām-e Bābā Haydar, Kalām-e Seyyed Mir Hamzeh, Kalām-e Seyyed ‘Abbās Jayhun Ābādi, Kalām-e Shāh Hayās, Kalām-e Zolnur Qalandar, Kalām-e Ātash Bayg, Kalām-e 56 For an instance see Ṣafi al-Din Burke’i, ed., Nāme-ye Saranjām: Yeki az Mutun-e Kuhan-e Yārsān (Tehran: Hirmand, 1996), 6. Burke’i divides the Saranjām kalāms into six parts: Bārgah Bārgah, Dawra-ye Haftawāneh, Gilim wa Kul, Dawra-ye Chihiltan, Dawra-ye ‘Ābedin, and Khurde Saranjām (the names remind the reader of Khurde Avesta). 57 The authentication of kalāms requires a thorough studying and understanding of the yāri religion, the Yārsānis belief systems and worldviews, social hierarchies, khāndāns and family system along with expertise in Hawrāmi/Gurāni dialect and knowledge of other dialects in region. 58 Hooshmandrad, “Performing the Belief,” 92. 59 For a text to be considered authentic it must be either original or the exact duplicate of the original text. In communities with significant emphasis on orality (like the Yārsān), there is always a possibility of some alterations during the process of “manual reproduction” of the text (referring to Walter Benjamin’s phrase) due to deterioration or neglect. However, until recently keeping the “tradition of the ancestors” alive was dependent on these manual reproductions without undermining their authenticity. Nowadays considerable copies of sacred manuscripts can be found among the eleven Yārsāni families both in Iran and Iraq. Since the concept of “authenticity” is closely related to authority, the problem of authentication will not be resolved anytime soon among Yārsānis due to lack of central power in the community. Walter Benjamin, The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, trans. Harry Zohn (Schocken/Random House, 1936).

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Seyyed Farzi, Kalām-e Shaykh Amir, and Kalām-e Seyyed Birāka. These texts envelop nuances regarding the renewal of the covenant with Sultan, and further emphasize the covenantal obligations of a Yārsāni with a pir. Furthermore, it seems that post-Perdiwar kalāms intend to remind the Yārsānis of their religious commitments and practices, specially of holding Jam.60 From a literary gaze, these sacred texts are significant for their symbolic and mystical language which encompass the many allusions and metaphors that bespeak their novel poetics. The comparison between the literary forms of post-Perdiwar kalāms and the previous periods is valuable in understanding the Yārsān throughout their history—and more broadly the Gurāni literature and language.

The Yārsān Non-Religious Literature The Yārsān non-religious literature can be divided into two categories: 1) poetries composed by individuals about the yāri religion; and 2) Kurdish genre of Shāhnāmeh (The Book of Kings). Well-known religious figures have composed poetries introducing, explaining, and interpreting the yāri religion from their own perspective. While these texts are not part of religious sacred kalāms, they are valuable in studying developments of the Yārsān community concerning region and religion. The poems of Hussein Ruḥtāfi61 (in Kurdish and Persian) and Hāj Ni‘matullāh Jayhunābādi62 (in Kurdish and Persian) are good examples. The Kurdish genre of Shāhnāmeh is another important non-religious literature that has attracted the attention of the Yārsānis. This Kurdish epic, written in Gurāni language, is connected to the Persian Shāhnāmeh63 through similar mythical narratives and stories; however, it is distinct in various dimensions such as storyline

60 One of many well-known khishts about the importance of holding Jam ritual and its function of bringing the Yārsānis together is the khisht no. 99 in Kalām-e Shaykh Amir named “Jami ke Jam bu.” MS Daftar Kalām-e Ḥaḍrat-e Shaykh Amir, Kermanshah, Iran, by the effort of Hossein Ruḥtāfi, 1992. 61 For more information about Hussein Ruḥtāfi and his poems, see: Surnā ‘Azizi, Zistan Dar Bikarānigi (Tehran, Mouj, 1986). 62 For more information regarding Hāj Ne’matullah Jeyhunābādi and his works, see: Mojan Membrado, “Hājj Ne’matullah Jayhunābādi (1871–1920) and His Mstical Path within the Ahl-e Haqq Order, ed. Khanna Omarkhali (Göttingen: Harrassowiz Verlag, 2014), 13–46. 63 Composed by Ferdowsi in the eleventh century, the Persian Shāhnāmeh is an epic poem that describes mythical and historical past of Iran from creation of the world to the Islamic conquest of Iran.

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and rhyme scheme.64 Sharing common features of Gurāni literature, the Kurdish Shāhnāmeh follows syllabic meter, which is different from the Persian quantitative system.65 Besides the Shāhnāmeh narratives’ aesthetical and cultural features that captivate the Yārsān community, the integration of its figures, characters, and concept with Yārsān kalāms have played a significant role in highly valuing and safeguarding this genre of literature.66 In kalāms, the Shāhnāmeh’s Kings and Iranian heroes, such as Kay-Kāwus, Jamshid, Rostam, and Sohrāb, are manifestations of Sultan, haftan, and other holy figures. Furthermore, religious concepts such a dhāt (essence) that play a vital role in shaping the narratives in Shāhnāmeh are also placed in the center of the yāri religion.67 It is worth noting that while there is no evidence that one particular author wrote the Kurdish Shāhnāmeh, the Yārsānis believe that Almās Khān Kandule’i68 composed the epic based on the Southern Zagros Kurdish oral narratives. Since he was a follower of the yāri religion, he infused yāri beliefs and worldviews into his writing: there is, however, no evidence to prove this claim. Such claims point to the infancy of such studies within the paradigm of Kurdish studies.

Conclusion Gurāni, a “multi-dialect language,” is the oldest and the most dominant language in the manuscript tradition, and poetry composition, in the Zagros region.69 It has also played a significant role in preserving the literary and linguistic features and styles of the other dialects in the region, such as Luri and Laki. The Yārsān’s religious, and non-religious, manuscripts have preserved vast quantities of the Gurāni literature, which has helped in keeping alive old traditions, narratives, and general knowledge. Considering the expansive and extensive geography of the Yārsān community, and their religious leaders throughout history, each of the obtained manuscripts has its own literary and linguistic uniqueness within the context of the Gurāni style. Hence, the literary corpora of the Yārsān are an exceptional historical resource for studying and finding potential patterns of linguistic and literary change, and development, within the tradition. The investigation on influence and 64 Behrooz Chamanara, “An Investigation into the Kurdish Genre of the Shāhnāmeh and Its Religious Dimensions,” Journal of Persianate Studies 6 (2013): 164, 170. 65 Ibid, 170. 66 Ibid, 169. 67 Chamanara, “An Investigation,” 175. 68 Almās Khān-e Kandule’i (d. 1777) was a Kurdish poet from the village of Kenule, Kermanshah. 69 Chamanara, “An Investigation,” 165.

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impact of the Yārsān literature on epics, legends, myths, and other literary genres in the region could not only shed light unto the unknown aspects of the Yārsān tradition, but also can highlight the anthropological significance of their influences on Kurdish culture.

Bibliography Benjamin, Walter. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. Translated by Harry Zohn. Schocken/Random House, 1936. Chamanara, Behrooz. “An Investigation into the Kurdish Genre of the Shāhnāmeh and Its Religious Dimensions.” Journal of Persianate Studies, no. 6 (2013): 164–170. Dakke’i, Seyyed Fazlullah, ed. Divān-e Ḥaḍrat -e Bābā Nāwus. Tehran: Nashr-e Thālith, 2016. During, Jean. “A Critical Survey on Ahl-e Haqq Studies in Europe and Iran.” In Alevi Identity: Cultural, Religious and Social Perspectives, edited by Tord Olsson, Elizabeth Özclalga, and Catharina Raudvere, 125–29. London: Routledge, 2005. Halm, Heinz. Encyclopedia Iranica. “Ahl-e Haqq.”1882. http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/ ahl-e-haqq-people (accessed on 10 August 2020). Hooshmandrad, Partow. “Performing the Belief: Sacred Musical Practice of the Kurdish Ahl-e Haqq of Guran.” PhD Diss., University of California, 2004. Kreyenbroek, Philip G. “Orality and Religion in Kurdistan: the Yezidi and Ahl-e Haqq Traditions.” A History of Persian Literature XVIII, edited by Philip G. Kreyenbroek, and Ulrich Marzolph, 70–88. London & New York: I. B. Tauris, 2010. Nash, Geoffery. Comte de Gobineau and Orientalism: Selected Eastern Writings. Edited and translated by Daniel O’Donoghue. New York: Routledge, 2009. Shāh Ibrāhimi, Seyyed Amrullāh. Barzanja: Matn-e Kalāmiwa Tarjume wa Sharh-e Ikhtisāriye Dawra-ye Barzinjah wa Ibtidāy-e Dawra-ye Perdiwar. Sahneh, 2009. Taheri, Tayyeb, ed. Saranjām: Majmu’ye Kalāmhaye Yārsān. Erbil: Ārās, 2007.

Jon E. Bullock

Kurdish Music as Literature: Some Historical Considerations Abstract: For decades, scholars of Kurdish oral history have stressed the importance of the enduring relationship between Kurdish music and poetry.1 Nevertheless, this relationship is often described as if it were one in which musical practice merely served as a vehicle for the documentation and dissemination of poetic works of value, or in which largely illiterate musicians simply preserved the works of famous poets for future generations. This chapter argues that music has played a far more important role in Kurdish cultural history, and that histories of Kurdish music-making are an essential component of any emerging history of Kurdish literature. The chapter begins by highlighting the importance of music in the 8th-century formation of Al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad’s metrical system of ‘arūḍ (prosody), which would ultimately influence Arab, Persian, and Kurdish poets alike.2 Centuries later, musical practice once again transformed the history of Kurdish poetry as ‘Ebdułła Goran turned to genres of folk music as inspiration for new twentieth-century forms of Sorani prosody.3 What follows examines the ways in which musical practice in the century preceding Goran’s reforms both reflected and diverged from the unique challenges of Kurdish language standardization and the development of a Kurdish literary medium. Furthermore, it argues that while political environments differed across time and space, music transcended national borders in ways that printed texts could not—and did not—, in many cases reaching a far wider audience, or “listening public.”4 This chapter therefore offers an understanding of Kurdish music not only as a means of cultural preservation, but also as a marker of local or regional difference, a manifestation of nationalist sentiment, a means of engagement with broader Middle Eastern cultural traditions, and a catalyst for change within the Kurdish poetic tradition itself.

1 See, for example, Christine Allison, “Old and New Oral Traditions in Badinan,” Kurdish Culture and Identity, ed. Philip G. Kreyenbroek and Christine Allison (London: Zed Books Ltd., 1996). 2 Throughout this chapter, romanization follows the tables provided by the Library of Congress; note the differences between words transliterated from Sorani Kurdish and those transliterated from Arabic. 3 Amir Hassanpour, Nationalism and Language in Kurdistan, 1918–1985. San Francisco: Mellen Research University Press, 1992. See also Michael M. Gunter, “Literature,” Historical Dictionary of the Kurds, 3rd ed. London: Rowman and Littlefield, 2018. 4 Stephen Blum and Amir Hassanpour, “‘The Morning of Freedom Rose Up’: Kurdish Popular Song and the Exigencies of Cultural Survival.” Popular Music 15, no. 3 (1996). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110634686-007

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On October 30, 2019, UNESCO announced it had added a total of 66 names to its list of UNESCO Creative Cities, bringing the worldwide total to 246. Two of the newly designated “creative cities” are important urban centers in majority Kurdish regions—Sine (Sanandaj5) in Iranian Kurdistan, designated a creative city of music, and Silêmanî in Iraqi Kurdistan, designated a creative city of literature.6 According to its mission statement, the UNESCO Creative Cities Network (UCCN) was created to “strengthen cooperation with and among cities that have recognized creativity as a strategic factor of sustainable development as regards economic, social, cultural, and environmental aspects.”7 The “creative fields” recognized by the UCCN include not only music and literature, but also crafts and folk art, design, film, gastronomy, and media arts. In many ways, the designation of Sine and Silêmanî as creative cities of music and literature, respectively, represents an important acknowledgement of the reputation representatives of these cities have worked hard to attain. In August 2019, for example, the city of Sine held its ninth annual international festival celebrating the def (daf), a frame drum traditionally covered with goat skin and lined with small metal rings that produce a resonant effect when the drum is shaken.8 In Silêmanî, one need not look very far to find public monuments highlighting the importance of poetry and other literary forms in the city’s collective cultural identity. Several of the city’s main streets—including Salim and Mewlewî Streets—are named after important poetic figures from the nineteenth century, and busts of Kurdish poets line the main avenue of Baxî Giștî, the public park directly opposite the city’s center and main bazaar. In Silêmanî, the local response to the city’s designation as a creative city of literature was both positive and swift. Neçîrvan Barzanî, President of Iraq’s Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG), made a public announcement of his approval of the decision, and likewise, Mesrûr Barzanî, Prime Minister of the KRG, congratulated citizens of both cities, calling for continued development in the fields of literature and other arts.9 Less official responses seemed just as positive, with local residents and 5 Sine is the city’s Kurdish name, whereas in Persian it is called Sanandaj. Throughout the rest of the chapter, city names are generally given in Kurdish followed by more conventional names/ spellings in parentheses, if applicable (i.e., Hełebçe/Halabja, Hewlêr/Erbil). 6 “UNESCO Designates 66 New Creative Cities,” accessed July 27, 2020, https://en.unesco.org/creative-cities/events/unesco-designates-66-new-creative-cities. 7 “Mission Statement,” accessed July 27, 2020, https://en.unesco.org/creative-cities/sites/creative-cities/files/uccn_mission_statement_rev_nov_2017.pdf. 8 These two spellings represent the romanization from both Kurdish (def) and Arabic (daf), respectively. 9 Ed. John J. Catherine, “Kurdish Leaders Welcome Sulaimani, Sanandaj as UNESCO ‘Creative Cities,’” November 1, 2019, https://www.kurdistan24.net/en/culture/b1a151b7-a327-42bd-837c-c7ffaf5286f9.

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musicians in Silêmanî excitedly discussing the city’s designation as a creative city of literature for weeks on end. While these positive responses are not particularly surprising, they reveal important differences in the ways musicians in particular discussed Silêmanî as a city of literature compared to the ways they often discuss the city as a city of “culture” writ large, particularly in regard to musical heritage. The labeling of Silêmanî as the KRG’s “cultural capital” by the region’s Board of Tourism has been the subject of numerous conversations with local musicians, many of whom laughingly asked how the city’s troubled economic situation, stemming in part from the invasion of Daesh (ISIS/ISIL) in 2014, can truly support an active network of cultural figures and innovators. Local musicians have also insisted many times in private conversations that compared with cities like Hewlêr (Erbil) and Kirkuk, Silêmanî is a “new” city,10 and one without longstanding musical traditions like those of the Kurdish meqams of Kirkuk and the broader region of Germyan.11 “Kurdish music was born in Iran and raised in Silêmanî” is a common quip among musicians in Silêmanî, often invoked in reference to the city’s role in Kurdish music history. This perception seems to stem from several historical factors that date back centuries; perhaps the most important is the relative strength of the Erdełan dynasty (c. 16th-19th centuries AD), a Kurdish principality that ruled the region surrounding Sine for centuries. Silêmanî, on the other hand, was founded in 1784 by the Babans (c. 17th-19th centuries AD), rivals to—and yet admirers and occasional friends of—the Erdełans. The relative strength and longevity of the Erdełans in comparison with that of the Babans means that, historically, Erdełan courts were more reliable patrons of court musicians, leading Sine to become a musical center of sorts (this influence extended to other areas such as architecture as well). Silêmanî’s founders, the Baban princes, became fiercely dedicated patrons of poetry instead; unlike the Erdełans, the Babans encouraged the poets in their employ to compose in the local dialect (Soranî) rather than the quasi-religious language of Goranî, a dialect still spoken in parts of Iraqi and Iranian Kurdistan, and from whose name

10 Silêmanî was founded by the Baban principality in the late eighteenth century; Hewlêr, by comparison, has been inhabited for thousands of years. 11 Just as the genre of urban art-song commonly known as “Iraqi maqām” (al-maqām al-ʻiraqī) uses the word maqām without specific reference either to the system of melodic organization known as maqām or to the names of individual melodic modes, “Kurdish meqam” (meqamî Kurdî) denotes a genre popular within Soranî-speaking regions in particular. In terms of musical form, Iraqi maqams and Kurdish meqams share similar vocabulary and structure; the difference in transliteration (maqām/meqam) reflects the difference in romanization for words or phrases transliterated from Arabic and Kurdish, respectively. When referring to maqām in its more general sense (even within Kurdish music), I retain the more popular Arabic transliteration.

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the Soranî word for song (goranî) is derived.12 As a direct result of Baban patronage, the nineteenth-century poets Nalî (1800–c. 1856), Salim (c. 1800–1866), and Kurdî (c. 1806–1850) are still referred to as the “three pillars of Baban.” Their work remains influential to this day, its historical mark most apparent on the standardization of the Central Kurdish dialect of Soranî as a literary and official language of the region. The legacies of the Erdełans and the Babans, like Silêmanî’s busts of the great Kurdish poets of the past, seem to remain set in stone to this day—Sine remains a creative city of music, and Silêmanî one of literature. Whereas local inhabitants of Silêmanî are no doubt proud of their city’s creative designation, they also appear to shy away from claiming too much importance in relation to Kurdish musical practice. That honor, it seems, belongs to Sine. The question here, of course, is not whether Sine or Silêmanî is more deserving of recognition in any particular creative area, but rather, how to understand the impact of Kurdish histories of music-making in relation to other, sometimes disparate, histories of Kurdish literary production. In Western discourse, these two categories—music and literature—are often understood to demarcate two distinct realms of artistic activity, with the academic study and production of each characterized by its own separate institutions, funding sources, and disciplinary homes.13 The centuries-long debate in the West regarding how to understand the interrelation of the arts includes early English texts such as Dryden’s 1695 A Parallel of Poetry and Painting, Hildebrand Jacob’s 1734 Of the Sister Arts, and Charles Avison’s 1752 An Essay on Musical Expression. In 1970, Calvin S. Brown, founder of the Comparative Literature Department at the University of Georgia, argued that despite the long history of polemics such as these, music and literature had nevertheless become “two separate arts.” He went on to ask, “Is a poem merely the raw material for a song, or is the music merely an accompaniment for a stylized recitation of a

12 Joyce Blau, “Kurdish Written Literature,” in Kurdish Culture and Identity, ed. Philip G. Kreyenbroek and Christine Allison (London: Zed Books, 1996), 21–22. 13 Perhaps the most obvious flashpoint caused by the recent challenging of these boundaries arose in 2016, when musician Bob Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Public discourse surrounding the decision to award a literary prize to a musician prompted widespread conversations regarding the supposed differences between music and literature. Examples of these discussions from popular media include stories by Vanity Fair (https://www.vanityfair.com/style/2017/04/ bob-dylan-finally-has-nobel-prize), Rolling Stone (https://www.rollingstone.com/music/ewmusicfeatures/why-bob-dylan-deserves-his-nobel-prize-127381/), Men’s Journal (https://www.mensjournal.com/entertainment/the-case-against-bob-dylans-nobel-prize-win-w444724/), and the New York Times (https://www.nytimes.com/2017/06/14/arts/music/bob-dylan-nobel-lecture-sparknotes.html).

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poem? What are the problems of the composer who sets a song? Conversely, what are the problems of the poet who writes lyrics for a pre-existing tune?”14 Although these particular questions were formulated in response to Western debates on the interrelation of arts such as music and literature, the problems they highlight are also relevant to scholarship describing Kurdish arts and culture. For example, in her work on the dengbêjs of Turkish Kurdistan, Wendelmoet Hamelink suggests that the art of the dengbêjs can be studied for its “literary or musical qualities” (emphasis added).15 Hamelink goes on to explain that her approach is to analyze the kilams performed by the dengbêjs through the lens of storytelling, one that tracks closely with literary models. This emphasis on viewing a musical practice through a literary lens allows Hamelink to make several powerful claims about the importance of the art of the dengbêjs as a sonic “home” for Kurds troubled by violence and other forms of conflict. Beyond the work of Hamelink and a handful of other scholars writing about the various forms of Kurdish musical practice, it is the development of a distinctly Kurdish literary corpus that continues to receive most of the scholarly attention, and perhaps understandably so. After all, it was literary practice that allowed a certain measure of language standardization in what would eventually become the KRG (Kurdistan Regional Government). Furthermore, the literary heritage of Kurds includes such recognizable works as Eḧmedî Xanî’s Mem û Zîn (1692), one of the foundational texts often viewed as a historical marker of a centuries-old Kurdish collective consciousness. In this sense, it is literature that affords Kurds one of the basic markers of collective identity and “civilization.”16 In comparison, we have no such great heritage of Kurdish musical objects. Even today, many musicians lament 14 Calvin S. Brown, “The Relations between Music and Literature as a Field of Study,” Comparative Literature 22, no. 2, Special Issue on Music and Literature (Spring 1970): 102. 15 Wendelmoet Hamelink, The Sung Home: Narrative, Morality, and the Kurdish Nation (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 2.See also Amir Sharifi and Zuzan Barwari, “The Oral Tradition of Dengbêjî: A Kurdish Genre of Verbal Art and Reported Speech,” in Kurdish Art and Identity: Verbal Art, Self-definition and Recent History, ed. Alireza Korangy, foreword Philip G. Kreyenbroek (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020). On page 136,the authors define dengbêj and dengbêjî as follows: “Dengbêjî  – literally meaning ‘voice telling,’ or ‘sung narrative’ – is a repertoire of cultural knowledge. Imparted by a dengbêj, an oral narrator (a bard of sorts) who compiles and recites dastan or çîrok (‘narratives’) for the public on various social occasions, these narratives chronicle events of the past, both remote and recent. They touch on social, political, historical, and personal elements of Kurdish life.” 16 I cite literature as a characteristic of “civilization” here not as part of any attempt to bolster this claim, but rather as a way of highlighting the traditional (often colonial) association of “civilized” societies with bodies of literature. As the rest of this chapter shows, the lack of a similar corpus of Kurdish musical objects should not in any way be taken as a suggestion that Kurds have no music history of their own (a claim I have now encountered and disputed several times during my dissertation research).

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the lack of standardization of Kurdish musical practice, particularly in light of the stylistic influences of other regional musical traditions. Despite these gaps in the historical and cultural archive, histories of Kurdish music-making must remain an essential component of any emerging history of Kurdish literature. This argument is not meant to suggest that musical genres like kilams or Kurdish meqams such as Ay Ay or Sefer should be analyzed using literary devices (as Hamelink does effectively with regard to kilams), but rather that the entire trajectory of Kurdish music history is worth considering alongside, and occasionally as part of, the trajectory of Kurdish literary production.17 At times, the two seem to neatly converge, and yet at other times Kurdish music-making illustrates a series of affordances not characteristic of literary production as a whole. Nevertheless, in both cases, Kurdish musical practice must be viewed as far more than simply a vehicle for the documentation, dissemination, and preservation of poetic or other literary works of value. As a way of grounding this argument in ways that highlight the potential for musical-literary collaboration, what follows is a brief examination of the historical origins of ‘arūḍ (in Soranî, ‘erûz), the metrical basis of Arabic prosody which influenced the composition of not only Arabic poetry, but also poetry in Ottoman Turkish, Persian, and Kurdish. This section highlights the ways in which it was music that inspired the eighth-century theorist of ‘arūḍ, Al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad, thereby providing a music-theoretical basis for subsequent models of poetic meter. The subsequent section highlights the important work of twentieth-century poet ‘Ebdułła Goran, who sought to decouple Kurdish (specifically Soranî) poetry from centuries of reliance upon foreign influence, finding inspiration instead in none other than Kurdish folk songs. Finally, the closing section considers differences in the formation of reading and listening publics in recent Kurdish history by discussing several key moments in the history of radio in the various regions of Kurdistan. It argues that while the political situation in twentieth-century Kurdistan differed across time and space, music transcended national borders in ways printed texts could not, in many cases reaching far wider audiences. The conclusion builds upon these important case studies to propose an understanding of music not only as a means of cultural preservation, but also as a marker of local or regional difference, a manifestation of nationalist sentiment, a means of engagement with broader Middle Eastern cultural traditions, and a catalyst for change within the Kurdish poetic tradition itself.

17 Kilams are often performed by dengbêjs, whereas Ay Ay and Sefer are the names of two Kurdish meqams from Germyan and Silêmanî, respectively.

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Medieval Arabic Music Theory and the Formation of ‘Arūḍ From the Andalusian nūbāt (“suites”) of Northern Africa to the ghazals of the eastern Iranian world, music and poetry have for centuries shared an esteemed cultural importance across the Middle East. Both have been the subject of numerous treatises in multiple languages, and theorists of both have often used the same or similar terms to describe differing phenomena. In Arabic, for example, the word maqām is used to describe the melodic modes of traditional Arabic music, whereas maqāmah refers to a medieval literary genre consisting of rhymed prose. In Persian, radīf refers both to the traditional repertoire of Iranian music that was codified in the nineteenth century, and to the practice of ending the second line of each couplet in a ghazal with the same word or group of words. The history of the complex relationship between the theory and practice of both music and poetry (as well as other literary forms) no doubt extends significantly further into the past than our current historical methods are able to reveal; nevertheless, the interrelation of music and poetry in Arabic can be traced back at least as far as the eighth century CE, when grammarian and lexicographer Al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad (718–766 CE), a native of Baṣra in Iraq, first devised ‘arūḍ, the science of Arabic prosody.18 ‘Arūḍ’s historical significance not only illustrates the relation of Arabic prosody to Arabic music theory, but also highlights a set of problems shared by both music and literature throughout the region’s history. According to ethnomusicologist George Sawa, medieval biographers of Al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad claimed that the discipline of music (with its theories of rhythm in particular) was central to Khalīl’s understanding and codification of the rules for Arabic prosody.19 The earliest extant Arabic texts that deal with musical rhythm were written in the ninth century CE by Isḥāq al-Mawṣilī, who claimed that the role of prosody in poetry was comparable to the role of rhythm in music (and whose student Ziryāb would go on to found the Andalusian school of music in Cordova).20 From a theoretical point of view, Isḥāq’s works read as imprecise, probably because as a performer himself, Isḥāq

18 George Sawa, “Theories of Rhythm and Meter in the Medieval Middle East,” in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, Vol. 6: The Middle East, ed. Virginia Danielson, Scott Marcus, and Dwight Reynolds (New York: Routledge, 2002), 416. 19 Sawa, “Theories of Rhythm and Meter in the Medieval Middle East”, 416. 20 Mahmoud Guettat, “The Andalusian Musical Heritage,” in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, Vol. 6: The Middle East, ed. Virginia Danielson, Scott Marcus, and Dwight Reynolds (New York: Routledge, 2002), 471.

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was more interested in his work’s practical value for performance than he was its theoretical value. After Isḥāq’s death, the philosopher Abū Yūsuf Yaʻqūb b. Isḥāq al-Ṣabbāḥ al-Kindī (d. 873) also wrote at length about rhythmic modes, albeit as a theorist and not a performer. Al-Kindī borrowed much of his theoretical framework from ancient Greek music theory, and as a result, his work on rhythmic modes must be viewed as distinct from contemporary rhythmic practice among ninth-century Arab musicians. In the tenth century, musician and philosopher Abū Naṣr al-Fārābī (d. 950) combined the value of past performative and theoretical treatises in his own works on rhythm, three of which survive in his Kitāb al-mūsīqī al-kabīr (Grand Book of Music), Kitāb al-īqā‘āt (Book of Rhythms), and Kitāb iḥṣā’ al- īqā‘āt (Book for the Basic Comprehension of Rhythms).21 The shortcomings of both music theory and literary theory as they were developed in the medieval Middle East overlap in ways that prove productive for considering the broader relationship between music and literature. As one starting point, consider the aforementioned tension between theory and practice in medieval Arabic music theory texts. According to Isḥāq, the performer, rhythmic mode was the primary method of musical classification; in other words, a song’s rhythmic mode was considered far more important than its melodic mode (a classification that no doubt pre-dated even Khalīl).22 For this reason, both Isḥāq al-Mawṣilī and Manṣūr b. Ṭalḥa (d. 864), both of whom influenced the work of al-Kindī, largely ignored translations of earlier Greek rhythmic treatises in favor of using terms and concepts already familiar to music practitioners themselves.23 Isḥāq was the first to describe the eight rhythmic modes that would later form the basis for much of the rhythmic theory found in al-Kindī, al-Fārābī, and others; al-Fārābī, who also received musical training and whom Sawa describes as “the most brilliant music theorist the Middle East has ever produced,” would later build upon these rhythmic modes while insisting that practice must always precede and inform theory rather than the other way around.24 Al-Kindī, on the other hand, borrowed heavily from Greek treatises on rhythm, and later philosophers would accuse him of confusing competing theories of rhythm, including disparate theories of musical (īqā‘) and poetic (‘arūḍ) rhythm.25 Other problems that philosophers were forced to confront

21 Sawa, “Theories of Rhythm,” 416–417. 22 George Dimitri Sawa, Rhythmic Theories and Practices in Arabic Writings to 339 AH/950 CE: Annotated Translations and Commentaries (Ottawa, Canada: The Institute of Mediaeval Music, 2009), 5. 23 Sawa, Rhythmic Theories and Practices in Arabic Writings to 339 AH/950 CE, 7–12. 24 Sawa, Rhythmic Theories and Practices in Arabic Writings to 339 AH/950 CE, 120–122. 25 Sawa, Rhythmic Theories and Practices in Arabic Writings to 339 AH/950 CE, 76.

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in both music and literature included defining the basic unit of rhythmic analysis (al-Kindī borrowed the Greek concept of rhythm-as-duration, whereas al-Fārābī would later base his analysis on the measurable striking of a string or a drum),26 as well as contending with the need to change regional variants of music (or poetry) to fit the established theoretical models. For practitioners of Arabic prosody, many of these problems were also reproduced in the discourse surrounding ‘arūḍ. As the system spread regionally, it had differing impacts across time and space, whether in the form of Persian ‘arūḍ or Kurdish ʽerūz.27 Like later music theorists, Al-Khalīl b. Aḥmad was forced to confront the gap between (poetic) theory and practice, and his system of ‘arūḍ was as explanatory as it was prescriptive, particularly since Arab poets had already used a common metrical framework for at least two hundred years before the time of Khalīl.28 Also, like the music theorists, Khalīl was forced to designate an irreducible unit for analysis; in doing so, he chose the letter (ḥarf) rather than the syllable, a choice that would ultimately lead to new sets of problems when transferring the system to other languages.29 One of the results of this process was that in later centuries, the entire system of ‘arūḍ, especially as applied in other places, would essentially be reduced to a series of categorical names such as the names of individuals poetic meters (buḥūr), with little relation to their original meaning. The difficulty of mapping poetic theory onto other regional forms of poetry thereby led to the flowering of regional styles and applications of a broader theory with a shared vocabulary. In the realm of music history, a similar process led to the development of not only regional variants of individual melodic modes, or maqāms, but also unique regional repertoires such as the Iraqi maqām or the Kurdish meqam, both of which nominally share the same form, or structure. Following the rise of nationalism in the Middle East in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, these regional variants of both poetry and music would take on entirely new meanings in relation to new efforts to “purify” regional varieties of music and literature and to define the nation. For Kurds, these changes saw, once again, the convergence of music and literary theory and practice, particularly in the works of ‘Ebdułła Goran.

26 Sawa, Rhythmic Theories and Practices in Arabic Writings to 339 AH/950 CE, 76–77, 121–125. 27 For discussions of ʽerūz in Kurdish poetry, see Eḧmed Herdî’s ʽErûz le Șîʽrî Kurdî da (trans. Asos Herdî; Silêmanî: Serdam, 2009), or Nûrî Faris Ḧemexan’s ʽErûzî Kurdî (Hewlêr: Aras, 2004). 28 L. P. Elwell-Sutton, “ʽARŪŻ,” Encyclopedia Iranica, last updated August 15, 2011, accessed July 27, 2020, https://iranicaonline.org/articles/aruz-the-metrical-system#prettyPhoto. 29 Elwell-Sutton, “ʽARŪŻ”.

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‘Ebdułła Goran and Twentieth-Century Transformations of Kurdish Culture According to Kurdish poet and scholar Farhad Shakely, “Poetry has always been the main pillar of Kurdish literature.”30 Poetry has no doubt played a central role in Kurdish literary culture for centuries, but this is not, of course, to say that Kurdish poetry has remained the same. Alongside the political and cultural upheavals of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries that changed Kurdish society and the Kurdish social landscape forever and paved the way for the flowering of Kurdish nationalism, poetry, too, has been reexamined and reshaped in light of the changing demands of Kurdish culture. One of the most important twentieth-century Kurdish poets in this regard was ‘Ebdułła Goran, whom historian Wadie Jwaideh describes as “perhaps the most gifted of modern Kurdish poets in Iraq.”31 Aside from participating in the birth of contemporary Kurdish poetry, Goran was also an influential figure in the realms of music, theater, and nationalist discourse.32 Even more important in terms of the argument here is Goran’s participation in the growing transnational network of Kurdish cultural figures that began to form in the early to mid-twentieth century; in addition to poets and language/education reformers, this network also included prominent musicians such as singers ‘Elî Merdan (1904–1981) and R̄efîq Çalak (1923–1973). Together, these cultural icons responded to a new series of colonial interventions and later state suppression in Kurdistan. They did so by revisiting the value of Kurdish culture writ large while also capitalizing on the availability of new technologies that made the formation of Kurdish reading and listening publics possible on an entirely new scale. Goran was born in Hełebce (Halabja) in 1904, and in 1919, he and his family temporarily fled the town following the expansion of the British occupation of Ottoman Iraq. In 1921, following the death of his father and brother, Goran moved to Kirkuk, but in 1937, he again relocated to Hełebce as a teacher. From September 1942 until the end of 1944, Goran, along with R̄emzî Qezaz (d. 1973) and R̄efîq Çalak worked for a Kurdish-language radio station founded by the British in Jaffa.33 Iraq’s first regular broadcasts in Kurdish had begun just a few years earlier in November 1939, when 30 Farhad Shakely, “Classical and Modern Kurdish Poetry,” accessed July 28, 2020, http://morsmal. no/images/sampledata/CLASSIC__MODERN.pdf. 31 Wadie Jwaideh, The Kurdish National Movement: Its Origins and Development (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2006), 25. 32 See Mari R. Rostami, Kurdish Nationalism on Stage: Performance, Politics, and Resistance in Iraq (Great Britain: Bloomsbury, 2019). 33 Doktor Marif Xeznedar, “Beșî Sî w Çwarem: Goran,” Mêjûy Edebî Kurdî, vol. 6 (Hewlêr, Iraq: Aras, 2006), 573.

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Silêmanî native Kamîl Kakemîn announced a fifteen-minute segment consisting of news related to the war and one or two phonograph records of Kurdish music.34 By the time World War II began, global and local recording companies had already begun producing records of Kurdish singers such as ‘Elî Esẍer Kurdistanî (1882– 1936), Miryem Xan (1904–1949), Miḧemed ‘Arif Cizîrî (1912–1986), and Kawês Aẍa (1889–1936). The aftermath of World War I and the Treaty of Lausanne (1923) saw the expansion of Baghdad as a center for recording, and Kurds from each of the surrounding nations made their way to the city in order to record. The growing network of musicians and radio personnel soon included those who had worked for other Kurdish language stations such as the one in Jaffa, or others in Cairo and Beirut. Like the station in Jaffa, the station in Beirut initially grew out of Allied fears over the effects of Nazi propaganda on Kurdish listeners. In addition to subjecting Kurds to colonial interference in broadcasting technology, these stations also provided new opportunities for Kurdish cultural figures, while expanding the audience for cultural products such as unique regional genres of Kurdish music. Later commentators on Goran’s poetry divide his career (and his poetry) into three different periods: during the first, he followed archaic models based in large part on the Arabic system of ‘arūḍ. During the second period, his major themes included women and nature, both of which are also common themes in traditional Kurdish folksongs. In the third and final period, Goran turned more toward political themes, including the fight for Kurdish autonomy.35 In the 1950 preface to his collection Beheșt u Yadgar (Paradise and Memory), Goran himself acknowledges his earlier reliance upon foreign models such as ‘arūḍ, even while comparing his style to that of Nalî and Salim, two of the three “pillars of Baban.” Toward the end of the preface, Goran goes on to assert the importance of purging foreign loan words from Kurdish language and poetry.36 It was shortly after writing these words that Goran experienced the first of several stints in prison, beginning a pattern that would continue until shortly after the overthrow of the Hashemite monarchy in 1958. Goran’s supposed crimes were primarily related to his activities as a member of the Iraqi Communist Party (ICP). After the military coup of 1958, the ICP fared significantly better under the leadership of General ‘Abd al-Karīm Qāsim, and Goran himself made several trips to the Soviet Union.37 In 1960, Goran was appointed to the Kurdish Language and Literature faculty at the University of Baghdad, and in 1962 he died of cancer in the city of Silêmanî.38 34 Endryos Bakurî, Êzge (Hewlêr, Iraq: Çapxaney Șehab, 2009), 4. 35 Shakely, “Classical and Modern Kurdish Poetry”, 9. 36 ‘Ebdułła Goran, Dîwanî Goran, 3rd ed. (Tehran: Nashre Paniz, 2007), 40. 37 Xeznedar, “Beșî Sî w Çwarem: Goran,” 575. 38 Xeznedar, “Beșî Sî w Çwarem: Goran,” 575.

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In terms of the changes wrought by Goran on contemporary Kurdish poetry, it was primarily Kurdish folksong and other oral traditions that inspired him to abandon the antiquated emphasis on metrical analysis in favor of a greater consideration of stress patterns.39 These stress patterns form part of the broader repertoire of rhythmic and melodic gestures that Kurdish singers often utilize during a performance—and that give Kurdish music in any given region its distinct sound.40 In the epic genre of beyt, for example, “the variation and expansion of short rhythmic and melodic ideas lend coherence to the singer’s discourse,” an important task within a composition with a varying number of lines.41 Goran’s borrowing of stress patterns from Kurdish folk tradition meant that he was able to write a number of poems designed to be sung, and eleven sirûds (“anthems,” many of which were patriotic) were included in the 1980 published collection of his poetry. In the years since Goran’s death, singers and composers have also performed a number of his poems that were originally meant to be read, owing largely to the ease of adding melodies to his poems and also to the high importance traditionally placed on the creative use of Kurdish melodies and melody-types in performance. Goran’s narrative poem Bûkêkî Nakam (An Unfulfilled Bride; see Appendix 1), for example, can be sung using melodies typically heard during the performance of Kurdish meqam.42 Perhaps the most famous singer to perform Bûkêkî Nakam in this way was Ḧeme Sałiḧ Dîlan (1927–1990). If Goran’s life and career seem to illustrate a merging of the importance—and histories—of both Kurdish music and literature, the growing network of cultural figures of which he was a part and the technological advancements of the early to mid-twentieth century reveal the increasing divergence of different kinds of publics in Kurdistan throughout the latter half of the twentieth century. This divergence in the formation of Kurdish reading and listening publics is perhaps best illustrated by comparing Goran’s career with that of another important Kurdish cultural icon, ‘Elî Merdan. Key moments in the history of Kurdish Radio Baghdad, where Merdan was employed, demonstrate that Kurdish music-making in the twentieth century followed a trajectory that resulted in the creation of a series of unique affordances not shared by Kurdish literature at the time.

39 Michael M. Gunter, “Literature,” in Historical Dictionary of the Kurds, 3rd ed. (London: Rowman and Littlefield, 2018), 219. 40 Stephen Blum and Amir Hassanpour, “‘The Morning of Freedom Rose Up’: Kurdish Popular Song and the Exigencies of Cultural Survival,” Popular Music 15, no. 3 (1996): 335. 41 Stephen Blum, “Iran II. Folk Music,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, vol. 9, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan Publishers Limited, 1980), 302–303. 42 Blum and Hassanpour, 333–334.

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‘Elî Merdan, Kurdish Radio Baghdad, and the Formation of a Kurdish Listening Public In his 2006 preface to the third edition of Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, political scientist and historian Benedict Anderson asks the following question: “If nationalism was, as I supposed it, the expression of a radically changed form of consciousness, should not awareness of that break, and the necessary forgetting of the older consciousness, create its own narrative?”43 In asking this question, Anderson acknowledges not only the importance of accounting for conceptions of time in nationalist movements (an awareness of which spurred him to add the chapter “Census, Map, Museum” to the book’s third edition), but also the historically complex relationship between the “nation” and other imagined communities related to it. For Kurds, the multiplicity of imagined communities beyond the “nation” (an already-problematic category given the lack of a Kurdish state) includes Kurds living in the global diaspora, Kurds located in various non-Western nation-states founded on Western/colonial models, and Kurds who are part of distinct spiritual or linguistic communities, or who identify as members of several such communities. How, then, might researchers begin to understand the historical importance of a Kurdish listening public? And what has the formation of such a public accomplished in relation to the Kurdish nation more broadly? As Anderson suggests in Imagined Communities, the formation of a reading public represents a key step in the crystallization of national consciousness in its modern sense. He argues that the novel and the newspaper in particular “provided the technical means for ‘re-presenting’ the kind of imagined community that is the nation.”44 For Kurds, however, despite early attempts at publishing a wide range of literary materials, the development of a national (transnational in the current political sense) reading public was delayed until the latter half of the twentieth century, especially since for much of that time, as Amir Hassanpour notes, “organized linguistic and cultural activity by the Kurds has generally been considered ‘illegal’ in Iran, Iraq, Turkey, and Syria.”45 Additional challenges to the formation of a Kurdish reading public in the twentieth century included high rates of illiteracy, the delayed development of a Kurdish economic middle class, and the particular challenges of

43 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, revised edition (London: Verso, 2006), xiv. 44 Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, 25. 45 Amir Hassanpour, Nationalism and Language in Kurdistan, 1918–1985 (San Francisco: Mellen Research University Press, 1992), 446.

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language standardization in areas without state support for such efforts.46 In many ways, the development of recording and broadcasting technology across the region in the early twentieth century created conditions far more favorable to the development of a listening public instead. According to Amir Hassanpour and ethnomusicologist Stephen Blum, “Radio broadcasting has contributed, more than any other factor, to the formation of a [Kurdish] listening public with access to music on a daily basis.”47 As various media scholars have shown, radio can be understood historically as providing a symbol of national togetherness,48 reinforcing notions of the divide between the public and the private spheres,49 reflecting broader capitalist or other economic structures,50 and echoing, or even forming, particular attitudes toward gender, and other social norms.51 In short, “communication and information technology does not merely circulate discourse and make it available for analysis, it also produces knowledge and applies power.”52 Music scholars have also highlighted the importance of knowledge and power in regard to recording and broadcasting technology, arguing that the circulation of music recordings tends to reveal processes deeply entrenched in questions of tradition and cultural consciousness, or identity. In 1980s/90s India, for example, Peter Manuel argues that the circulation of popular music on cassette tapes helped to disseminate grassroots music, to unsettle large companies’ monopoly on recording, and to popularize various political movements.53 Likewise, in nearby Afghanistan, the cassette has served as a reminder of both the forces of modernity (insofar as recording and broadcasting at Radio Kabul reflected the desire to develop a national music compatible with Islamic values), and, in its “disemboweled” form, the struggle for power resulting in Taliban rule beginning in 1994.54 46 Hassanpour, Nationalism and Language in Kurdistan, 442–445. 47 Blum and Hassanpour, “‘The Morning of Freedom Rose Up’”, 330. 48 Michele Hilmes and Jason Loviglio, “Introduction,” in Radio Reader: Essays in the Cultural History of Radio, ed. Michele Hilmes and Jason Loviglio (New York: Routledge, 2002), xi. 49 Hilmes and Loviglio, “Introduction,” in Radio Reader: Essays in the Cultural History of Radio, 12. 50 Kathy M. Newman, “Poisons, Potions, and Profits: Radio Rebels and the Origins of the Consumer Movement,” in Radio Reader: Essays in the Cultural History of Radio, ed. Michele Hilmes and Jason Loviglio (New York: Routledge, 2002), 157–159. 51 Allison McCracken, “Scary Women and Scarred Men: Suspense, Gender Trouble, and Postwar Change, 1942–1950,” in Radio Reader: Essays in the Cultural History of Radio, ed. Michele Hilmes and Jason Loviglio (New York: Routledge, 2002), 183–185. 52 John Fiske, “Technostruggles: Black Liberation Radio,” in Radio Reader: Essays in the Cultural History of Radio, ed. Michele Hilmes and Jason Loviglio (New York: Routledge, 2002), 451. 53 Peter Manuel, Cassette Culture: Popular Music and Technology in North India (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). 54 John Baily, War, Exile, and the Music of Afghanistan: The Ethnographer’s Tale (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2015).

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The circulation of sonic materials, then, has played a central role in various kinds of solidarity movements across the globe. As historical musicologist Andrea Bohlman asserts in relation to 1980s Poland, these kinds of circulation often take as one of their primary aims situating “listening as a means of participating in oppositional discourse, making things out of sound as a social project with political force.”55 In regard to the Middle East in particular, scholars Ziad Fahmy and Charles Hirschkind have both written at length about the formation and importance of different kinds of listening publics in Egypt.56 In the various regions of Kurdistan, long histories of cultural suppression have only increased the value of cassettes and other musical artifacts as representatives of a particular kind of solidarity and resistance to colonial or state power. Kurdish Studies scholar Marlene Schäfers argues that the development of archives of these kinds of musical/historical artifacts (both public and personal) represents a set of important claims that highlight the marginality of those who have been historically excluded from “the centers of hegemonic, patriarchal, state power.”57 In Iraqi Kurdistan, the circulation of musical materials via records began long before the founding of the state-run radio station in Baghdad in 1936; in fact, in comparison with other nearby nations, Iraq lagged far behind in the early twentieth-century race for superiority over the airwaves. One of the benefits of this delay for Iraq’s Kurds was that Kurdish-language broadcasts were often accessible (albeit variably, depending on the region and even the time of day) from other nations, including parts of the Soviet Union, Armenia, and Iran. Even as the Iraqi government continued to thwart the development of a broader Kurdish reading public by resisting efforts towards Kurdish language standardization, the foundations of a Kurdish listening public were already being laid. Kurdish musicians who recorded in Baghdad and other cities starting in the 1920s were instrumental in forming the transnational network of cultural icons of which ‘Ebdołła Goran would later become a part, and which would make possible the development of a transnational Kurdish listening public. As Iraq’s Kurds began tuning in to Kurdish-language radio broadcasts from other nations, this cultural and professional network only grew stronger as some of this network’s central figures became increasingly recognized across various parts of Kurdistan. By the early

55 Andrea F. Bohlman, Musical Solidarities: Political Action and Music in Late Twentieth-Century Poland (New York: Oxford University Press, 2020), 25. 56 See Charles Hirschkind, The Ethical Soundscape: Cassette Sermons and Islamic Counterpublics (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006) and Ziad Fahmy, Street Sounds: Listening to Everyday Life in Modern Egypt (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2020). 57 Marlene Schäfers, “Archived Voices, Acoustic Traces, and the Reverberations of Kurdish History in Modern Turkey,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 61, no. 2 (2019): 448.

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1930s, radio sets began to appear in the larger cities. In Silêmanî, the first radio set was purchased by a teahouse owner in 1932, and it is reported that many of the local men began visiting the teahouse after the evening adhān (call to prayer) each day to witness “the wonderful device. . .which speaks without a person” and to listen to the Qur’ān.58 In 1936, the Iraqi government finally founded its own radio station, which was powered by a single mediumwave transmitter at the time.59 During its first few years of operation, the station was unable to broadcast live music, and as such, every music broadcast from the station was played from records. The Kurdish section of Radio Baghdad aired its first broadcast in November 1939, and in 1941 the station acquired the necessary equipment for airing live broadcasts. Once these broadcasts were made possible, the station hired its first Kurdish musician: ‘Elî Merdan. Merdan, who is still remembered by many today as the “king of maqām,” was born in 1904 (the same year in which Goran was born) in the city of Kirkuk. Also, like Goran, the young Merdan traveled the region extensively from a young age since his father was a tobacco seller and the leader of a caravan. At some point early in his life Merdan became fascinated by several local Qur’anic reciters and performers of maqām, and as he visited regions with unique musical repertoires, Merdan himself began learning how to perform. During this time, he learned a number of Kurdish meqams and regional genres such as Qetar, Xawker, Hore, Xurșîd, and Ay Ay.60 He also learned how to perform several Persian dastgāhs and Arabic maqāms, including Iraqi maqāms , during visits to Baghdad and other major urban centers in the region. In 1932, Merdan traveled to Cairo with a group of mostly Jewish musicians from Iraq to attend the Cairo Congress of Arab Music.61 Merdan’s participation in the event (as well as his extensive knowledge of Arabic and Persian musical systems) provides a powerful illustration of the ways in which Kurdish musicians have historically viewed their role in music-making in relation to other related musical systems 58 Umêd Necim, Facebook group “R̄adyoy Kurdî Komarî ‘Êraqe le Beẍda (“Kurdish Radio of the Republic of Iraq in Baghdad”), posted September 4, 2019. 59 Douglas A. Boyd, Broadcasting in the Arab World: A Survey of the Electronic Media in the Middle East, 3rd ed. (Ames, IO: Iowa State University Press, 1999), 124–125. 60 These are the names of particular Kurdish meqams from the region of Germyan. Though they share the same general musical structure, or form, and some broadly regional characteristics, there are major differences among these Kurdish meqams’ melodies and lyrics, to name just two examples. In other nearby regions such as Hewraman, Kurdish meqams are also performed, though they are generally discussed and categorized in relation to their places of origin (for example, these five Kurdish meqams are often mentioned together alongside some acknowledgement of their origins in Germyan). 61 Umêd Necim, Facebook group “R̄adyoy Kurdî Komarî ‘Êraqe le Beẍda (“Kurdish Radio of the Republic of Iraq in Baghdad”), posted September 4, 2019.

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in the Middle East. Merdan’s broad understanding of different regional musical traditions also echoes Goran’s early reliance upon Arabic and Ottoman Turkish models of poetry influenced by the system of ‘arūḍ. If the decades before Merdan’s employment at Kurdish Radio Baghdad seem to center Baghdad as the main hub of a growing network of musicians and other cultural icons, Merdan’s career illustrates the ways this network grew to straddle multiple linguistic, cultural, political, and national boundaries. For example, during his time at the radio station, Merdan became a manager of sorts for other musicians who were later employed by the station; these included the now-famous singers Tayêr Tofîq (d. 1987), R̄esûl Gerdî (d. 1994), Bakurî, Nesrîn Şêrwan (d. 1990), and Ḧesen Zîrek (d. 1972), a singer from Iranian Kurdistan who is said to have recorded as many as 1,000 songs during his lifetime. Merdan was also responsible for teaching Kurdish songs that were being broadcast from the station to the station’s small orchestra of mostly Jewish and Arab musicians.62 As daily airtime gradually increased in the years following World War II, radio broadcasting began to expand the Kurdish listening public as never before. The benefits of this growing transnational network of listeners were several: first, the availability of Kurdish radio broadcasts from multiple stations meant that no one state was likely to be able to restrict its Kurdish population from tuning in; after all, several of the other stations’ broadcasting Kurdish content also regularly broadcast propaganda criticizing other national governments. Second, the broadcasting of musicians from different regions of Kurdistan provided the chance for Kurdish listeners from various locations to begin becoming more familiar with regional genres they may not have been accustomed to hearing otherwise, even if those genres were performed in dialects not all listeners would understand. This process, undoubtedly, helped to spur a general increase in sonic literacy even as the efforts of literary innovators at the time remained limited by high rates of illiteracy among the general population and by the inability to publish in more than one or two major dialects. As the listening and reading publics in Kurdistan began to diverge with the advent of recording and broadcasting technology, the nascent listening public bolstered the growing Kurdish national movement, and radio provided consistent outlets for nationalist songs, poetry, and theater. Although radio and music recordings no doubt played a central role in Kurdish resistance to continued colonial and state interference, recording and broadcasting technology also resisted state control—certainly more than that of print-based forms of communication. Furthermore, rather than depending on a certain level of standardization that preceded the

62 Umêd Necim, Facebook group “R̄adyoy Kurdî Komarî ‘Êraqe le Beẍda (“Kurdish Radio of the Republic of Iraq in Baghdad”), posted September 4, 2019.

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development of a public audience (like that of the reading public), the formation of a Kurdish listening public seems to have come before moves toward the standardization of various musical forms. In this sense, the development of a Kurdish listening public in the early to mid-twentieth century provides a glimpse into the complexities of Kurdish nationalism and resistance to colonial/state power on a level equal to (if not surpassing) that of the Kurdish reading public of the same period.

Conclusion In 1985, Iranian Kurdish singer Mezherî Xaliqî, who is renowned worldwide as a performer of both Persian and Kurdish music, released a recording of “Berî Beyane” (“It Is Dawn”), one of ‘Ebdułła Goran’s nationalist anthems. Xaliqî, who later went on to found the Kurdish Heritage Institute in Silêmanî and Dihok, wrote the simple melody for the song himself. Like traditional Kurdish melodies, Xaliqî’s tune is relatively simple, spanning a range of only four notes. Also following traditional performance norms, Xaliqî modifies the length of each stanza in performance, alternating between four lines of poetry and two lines that are repeated, while keeping the melodic length of each stanza consistent with four or five lines. Overall, the performance strikes a joyous tone in keeping with Goran’s assertions throughout the poem that dawn is breaking (berî beyane), and that the call of the mountain partridge, a bird revered in traditional Kurdish culture, is being heard at last (qaspe qaspî kew așkra dełê; see Appendix 2). Adding to this joyous tone throughout the performance is the non-traditional use of keyboard sound settings reminiscent of more recent popular music across much of the Middle East. In addition to the use of keyboard, the performance also includes another element not characteristic of traditional Kurdish music: harmony. At the start of the first verse, Xaliqî and another singer begin the song in unison, but while repeating the fourth line of the poem (bałdar hêlaney xew be cê dêłê, which forms the fifth melodic line), the singer accompanying Xaliqî starts to sing in parallel thirds above the melody. Xaliqî’s recording of Berî Beyane represents just one of thousands of Kurdish recordings made over the last several decades; however, as even the basic analysis offered above reveals, the song bolsters several of the claims presented throughout this chapter: first, the song illustrates the ways in which Kurdish music has influenced Kurdish literature, and in which Kurdish musicians have also made use of Kurdish literary works, thereby aiding the preservation of such works, and making a strong political statement regarding Kurdish language, literature, and culture. Second, like the Kurdish poets who for centuries based their compositions on the system of ‘arūḍ, or musicians like ‘Elî Merdan who situate their own musical practice

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within broader regional styles and practices, the song blends an array of techniques characteristic of traditional Kurdish performance while also borrowing techniques from other musical systems in the region and across the globe. As other examples throughout this chapter have shown, Kurdish music-making has ultimately accomplished much more than simply preserving important literary works—it has also provided a way of marking local or regional differences in performance style and repertory, of bolstering nationalist sentiment, and of engaging with broader Middle Eastern (and global) cultural traditions, many of which share historical roots. As the case of Goran illustrates, Kurdish musical practice has, in turn, influenced the development of the Kurdish literary tradition. While future research will no doubt continue to shed new light on the rich details of Kurdish music history and its relation to Kurdish literature, the available data already shows that in emerging histories of Kurdish literature, histories of music-making must remain a major component.

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Appendix 1 Bûkêkî Nakam by ‘Ebdułła Goran Hey swar swar bê! Hey tifengçî dest bate tifeng! Hey jinî cwan arayșî xoy ka bo aheng! Lejêr taray surmeçna here cwanî dê, ‘Kiçî cûtyar!’ berew koșkî aẍa kewte r̄ ê Koșkî aẍa geçkarîye, awênebende, Kes nazanê be jimare, pencerey çende! Ḧewz u fwarey ḧewșî mer̄ mer̄ , baẍçe w çîmenî Beser naçê hergîz sewzî w gułî degmenî! Cwanî ladêy r̄ ûtî wekû tełî wenewșe Be awrîșim u be ałtûnî em koșk u ḧewșe Le tewqî ser ta berî bê perdaxt u poște, Swar krawe, șox u nazdar wekû firîște Xrawete r̄ ê bo perdey etłes u gurûn, Bo baxełî aẍay pêș çaw be çilçra r̄ ûn! Aẍay xawen xêz u șko, xawen samdarî, Le katêka dirêj eka destî diłdarî Bo gerdinî gułî kêwîy le cê hełgenraw, Nimî firmêsk be dî eka leser klî çaw! Sûçirkeyek be sertapay leșya eger̄ ê: Agadare firmêskî soz, dête xwar bo kê! Kiçî cûtyar bo beheștî jîn u diłdarî, Legeł kur̄ î șwan bestbûy peymanî yarî! Kur̄ î șwanî birjawî îș, leber hetaw qał, Meçek estûr, leș kełe get, defey nawșan çał. Tîrî xway ‘eșq heta șaper̄ diłî smîbû. Kiçî cûtyar leber çawî bit bû, perî bû! Em nazdareș be șew u r̄ oj nexșî xeyałî Kur̄ î șwan bû: bałay berzî, nawșanî çalî! Îtir r̄ êgay darstan u naw r̄ an u dêber Bû be șanoy sergruștey diłdar u diłber: Her bin dara, bin dewene, her biste xake Agadarî çen bendêk bû lem ‘eșqe pake! Heta r̄ ojê bo kiłołî aẍay șkodar! Leser r̄ iyê r̄ aw, kaseyek doy wergirt le nazdar, Gir̄ î leșî damirdewe be doy ser tezên, Bełam kûrey diłî kewte ber bay baweșên! Dest u kase w pencey do gîr, nîgay çawî r̄ eș, Heștîy aẍay fir̄ ê daye naw agrî geș! Pyaw maqûlî r̄ aspêrî kird tarek sazbikrê, Zû em șoxe nermunołey be bûk bo bibrê Kur̄ î șwaneke emey bît șêt bû, daye kêw, Zewîy dagirt be tifkirdin, asman be cinêw! Çen carê șew małî aẍay daye ber tifeng,

Kurdish Music as Literature: Some Historical Considerations 

Deẍłî sûtan, baẍî bir̄ î, bo etik u bo peng: Kilk u yałî çen çarewêy qel kird be xencer, Beser r̄ anî aẍaya da w mer̄ î daye ber Taku dwayî r̄ ojê bextî no kerî aẍa Xewî lê xist le sêberî dirextî baẍa; Pencey kîne leser pîlkey tifeng kewte kar, Kostî diłî bo êcgarî kewt kiçî cûtyar! Êsta ewa herçî biłêy nî’met u naze Hemûy eda be yek diłop firmêskî taze, Leber dergay çawî r̄ eșa bilerzê w biłê: Destî zor dar sed ser eka, nagate diłê!

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Appendix 2 Berî Beyane by ‘Ebdułła Goran Berî beyane, r̄ ûnake aso: Asoy hîway Kurd, mijde bê leto! Dengî bang hełsa le mizgewtî dê, Bałdar hêlaney xew be cê dêłê, Qaspe qaspî kew așkra ełê: Katî firman hat, Kurd nabêt binwê. Berî beyane, r̄ ûnake aso: Asoy hîway Kurd, mijde bê leto! Hełe ey lawî nîștimanî Kurd! Serdemî hełsan her kesê nûsit, mird! Pêwîstî pîroz, bełam sext u wird Çawer̄ wante, hełse dest u bird! Berî beyane, r̄ ûnake aso: Asoy hîway Kurd, mijde bê leto! Bo bextyarî w serbexoyî gel, Legeł hawr̄ êta pel bidere pel! Key derçû tîșkî hetaw le dem kel, Wiryabî, zor çak bekar bênî hel Berî beyane, r̄ ûnake aso, Asoy hîway Kurd, mijde bê leto!

Shilan Fuad Hussain

Kurdish Women’s Feminist Poetry: Developing a Voice in Southern Kurdistan and the Diaspora Abstract: This paper analyzes modern Kurdish poetry under the rubric of female writers from Southern Kurdistan, in the period spanning 1990 to 2009. After decades of suppression, Kurdish women’s poetry and literature emerges in 1991, following the liberation of Southern Kurdistan from under the yoke of the Ba’ath party. The research is based on a close analysis of the development of Kurdish literature and poetry in modern times. It focuses on the social and cultural value of the said women poets. As such, it highlights the powerful Kurdish feminist artistic activity in Southern Kurdistan—and the diaspora. It further shows that these poets and their poetry reflect the historical and political discourse within which they flourished. They represent the artists’ opposition to patriarchal law, their struggle in defense of their freedom of expression and identity, not to mention their struggle for equality and justice. Four women poets’ works are representative of the focus of the analysis herein. Their poetics addresses issues such as gender inequality, honor killing, and the patriarchy. Furthermore, the essay investigates the consequences of violence, conflict, and displacement that have burdened the Kurdish people over the last decades.

Introduction Kurdish poetry has been dominated by male writers since early in its history: the majority of women were not able to contribute because their poetic voice was silenced and institutionally ignored, while they were also being marginalized and suppressed for their gender. This is also broadly applicable to other fields in their society, reflecting a wider presence of gender-based inequity in Southern Kurdistan. Mestûrey Kurdistanî (1805–1847) is the first Kurdish woman poet, according to Kurdish critics, and it is said that her literary output begins at the beginning of the nineteenth century. There are a number of reasons behind the absence of Kurdish women in the field of literature. Moghadam argues that, “the patriarchal belt is characterized by extremely restrictive codes of behavior for women, rigid gender

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110634686-008

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segregation, and a powerful ideology linking family honour to female virtue.”1 This definition is applicable to Kurds where women are subordinates to men’s whims, and where a senior male will often rule the family with an iron fist in a society largely governed by patriarchal rules, and a “system of social relations” that sway control over social behavior.2 Albeit women contribute to the foundation of classic Kurdish patriarchy by fostering the male-controlled structure. The ostracism in a male-dominated society prevented Kurdish women from participating in various sectors, namely the political, social, cultural, and artistic arenas—essentially removing them from history. The Iraqi Ba’athist anti-Kurdish policies, economic instability, and social inequality have reinforced the patriarchal and gendered system in Kurdish society, not recognizing women’s fundamental rights; furthermore, strengthening the ever-tightening grip of a patriarchal system. Following the fall of Saddam Hussein (2003) a rather peaceful period came to pass. An independent Kurdish government and parliament were created, and Kurdish women partook in campaigns for women’s rights while fighting for gender equality. This yielded a fervor to reform Kurdish societal rules and attitudes towards women in Southern Kurdistan. Women poets have played a significant role in addressing issues such as gender inequality. Their poetics corresponds to their will in achieving social and cultural reform related to gender relations, peaceful coexistence, and equality. As Montefiore says, “poems are exchanged between individuals or passed round groups—a small-scale but intimate and widespread activity characteristic of the women’s movement.”3 The late 2000s bore witness to unprecedented economic growth and political stability, as Kurdish women gained more liberties, and became more active in their fight for gender equality.4 Consequently, women gained representa-

1 The devaluation of women due to patriarchal codes and norms has hampered their inclusion in politics—and their holding valuable social positions often dominated by men in Southern Kurdistan. Moghadam argues that “Muslim societies, like many others, harbor illusions about immutable gender differences. There is a very strong contention that women are different beings—different often meaning inferior—which strengthens social barriers to women’s achievement”. Female poets have expressed disapproval towards gender role construction; and discrimination prevents advances in women’s rights and exposes them to vulnerable positions in society. Valentine M. Moghadam, Modernizing Women: Gender and Social Change in the Middle East (Colorado: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1993), 5. 2 Sylvia Walby, Theorizing Patriarch (Oxford: Basil Blackwell Press, 1990), 20. 3 Janet Montefiore, “Feminist identity and the poetic tradition”. Feminist Review, No. 13, February (1983): 69. 4 In this regard, Nadje al-Ali and Nicola Pratt mention activities launched by women, including “welfare and humanitarian assistance; education and training; publishing and journalism; developmental projects; politics; legal aid services; support and protection of victims of gender-based

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tion in the Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG), and now hold high-ranking posts within the government. Since the last decade of the twentieth century, a number of Kurdish women poets’ voices have emerged, particularly in Southern Kurdistan and the diaspora. They have published poetry in various languages, namely Kurdish (Sorani and Kurmanji), Arabic, Persian, Turkish, and many Western languages.

The Context of the Development of Kurdish Women’s Poetry Targeted by the Iraqi Army, while also receiving the instability caused by the Iraqi political system negatively affected Kurdish women’s cultural production. These horrid conditions were further compounded with a range of specific social and cultural gender barriers which were imposed on women historically, and which refrained their growth in every sense of the word—as such women could not freely interact with one another. To boot, their literary activities were banned by Saddam’s regime in their entirety.5 The authoritarian regime of Saddam Hussein controlled every facet of society— and by extension women’s efforts for organization were also stymied: [. . .] Saddam’s dictatorship over the country also extended to women who, like other sectors of society, were not permitted to organize themselves. They were instead recruited into the corporate authoritarian structures of the regime. Hence women in the country never learned the organizational and mobilization skills that their sisters in Latin America, Asia, and Africa often did. The General Federation of Iraqi Women (GFIW) – the only women’s organization allowed, was under the strict watch of the Ba’athist government and became a tool of the Party – members were forced to join.6

What follows is an examination of some of the silenced, or otherwise never heard voices at home, and in the diaspora: Begîxanî Nezend, Diłsoz Ḧeme, Kejał Eḧmed, and Mehabad Qeredaẍî.

violence; and political lobbying related to women’s legal rights”. Nadje al-Ali, Nicola Pratt, “Between Nationalism and Women’s Rights: The Kurdish Women’s Movement in Iraq”. Middle East Journal of Culture and Communication, 4 (3), (2011): 337–353. 5 “Women’s public organizing was practically eliminated under the regime of Saddam Hussein, except for the Ba‘ath-sponsored General Federation of Iraqi Women (Ittihād al-‘ām li-nisa’ al-‘irāq), although some women continued to participate in underground movements linked to opposition political parties.” Nadje Al-Ali, Nicola Pratt, “Women’s Organizing and the Conflict in Iraq since 2003”, Feminist Review, No. 88, War, (2008): 76. 6 Lucy Brown, David Romano, Women in Post-Saddam Iraq: One Step Forward or Two Steps Back?, NWSA Journal, 18 (3), Feminist Perspectives on Peace and War: Before and after 9/11, (Fall 2006): 53.

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Kurdish Women Poets in Diaspora: Begîxanî Nezend and Diłsoz Ḧeme According to Zhang, diasporic literature has obliged the literary critics, “to reconsider the assumptions and meanings of identity, nation, home, place and memory in a broad cross-cultural context.”7 Zhang claims that the, “diaspora has been conceived not only as a process of migration in which people crossed and traversed the borders of different countries, but also as a double relationship between different cultural homes/origins.”8 Millions of Kurds migrated from their homeland to various other nations due to many factors such as conflict, and social barriers. In the diaspora, Kurdish women were free to produce poetry and literature. Their works were inspired by past experiences, influenced by their homeland’s culture, as well as being connected with the host country. As argued by Montefiore, in poetry, feminists perceive the portrayal of individual experiences as pivotal, stating that, “the women’s movement has always seen the perception and articulation of personal experience—in other words, consciousness-raising—as a vital form of political activity; some regard it as the feminist form.”9 Therefore, this paper’s reference to autobiographical traces in the poetry of diasporic (and homeland) poets is a result of a feminist approach concerning women’s writings. Begîxanî Nezend is a highly prolific poet and academic who has been playing a leading role as a women’s right campaigner. Since 1987, she has been living in exile in Denmark, the United Kingdom, and France. Her work has been internationally recognized for its activism. Her focus is oriented towards violence against Kurdish women and honor killings. Begîxanî belongs to the 1990s generation of Kurdish women poets; more specifically, she started writing poetry following the Anfal10 genocide and the chemical attacks on Halabja.11 These national tragedies affecting the Kurdish people

7 Benzi Zhang, Asian Diaspora Poetry in North America (New York and London: Routledge, 2008), 1. 8 Benzi, Asian Diaspora Poetry in North America, 1. 9 Janet, “Feminist identity and the poetic tradition”, 77. 10 The Anfal campaign against the Kurds (Anfal in English means “the spoils of war”) was conducted by Saddam Hussein’s Ba’athist regime in the 1980s: thousands of Kurdish civilians, men, women, and children disappeared. They were detained, tortured, raped, killed, and ended up in mass graves throughout Iraq. The Anfal campaign aimed at annihilating Kurds. The most recent books that gives details on Anfal are Choman Hardi, Gendered Experiences of Genocide: Anfal Survivors in Kurdistan-Iraq, (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), and Michael J. Kelly’s Ghosts of Halabja: Saddam Hussein and the Kurdish Genocide, (Connecticut and London: Prager Security International, 2008). 11 On 16th March 1988, Saddam Hussein’s Ba’ath’s regime attacked the Kurdish town of Halabja, close to Iran’s border, with chemical gas. The military campaign led by Ali Hassan Al-Majjid (known as Chemical Ali), and Iraqi army, killed up to five thousand civilians and injured thousands with a single operation. The chemical attacks have had long-term consequences, as reported by BBC news website

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are reflected throughout her poetry. Begîxanî’s poetry recalls her longing for a homeland, family, and loved ones with lines that resonate with nostalgia and sadness. As such, national tragedies that affected Begîxanî’s family, and the Kurdish community at large, surface in an enticing tone that invites the reader to experience her world. A dominant theme in Begîxanî’s poetry is gender inequality, patriarchal violence, and the killing of women for forsaking honor: “practicing religiously and culturally unauthorized love publicly or secretly.”12 In “Pîyawanî Hozekem” (My Tribe’s Men) from Dwênêy Sibeynê (Yesterday of Tomorrow, 1995),13 Begîxanî criticizes men’s subjugation of women, in particular the accepted sexual practices of Kurdish society, where according to the author, women are manipulated by men, and sexually objectified. For the first time in women’s Kurdish writing, a clear reference is made to women as a means of satisfying the need for sexual intercourse, rather than being valued as equal partners. Begîxanî develops a new and highly controversial idea in Kurdish poetry of “women as the honor of the nation”, by referencing Kurdish mothers’ commitment to protecting their daughters’ virginity until marriage, which is ostensibly tied to the concept of honor: Jinekanîyan debin be dayîk û bîr le kiçênî kiçekanîyan dekenewe . . . Pîyawekan debin be bawik û bîr le kuřekanîyan dekenewe Pîyawanî hozekem be fîzewe dest dirêj deken û le kelêne teȓekanî Leşîyan qefe hêz û qefe şeřef deřinnewe û deyken be mułkî Kuřekanîyan.14 Women become mothers and survey the virginity of their daughters . . . Men become fathers and survey their sons My tribe’s men proudly stretch their hands and from the wet areas of their Bodies harvest bundles of power and honor and make them the property of their sons.

A woman’s value, and honor, are tied to her virginity, and earning the respect of family, husband, and society; on the contrary, men behave as superior and virile,

“since the chemical attacks, the number of various forms of cancer, birth deformities, still-born babies and miscarriages is reported to have dramatically increased.” Kelly believes that “consequently, Halabja has become emblematic of the Kurdish genocide, much as Srebrenica is for the Bosnian genocide or Auschwitz for the Jewish Holocaust.” For more see, Hiwa Osman, Iraqi Kurds recall chemical attack. [online] BBC NEWS. [Accessed 20 March 2020]. Available at :