Nadia
Anjuman (1980-2005)
In 2005, when she was twenty five years old, Nadia Anjuman published her first collection of poetry, Gol-e Dudi (‘Smokey Flower’) to great acclaim. She was hailed for introducing a fresh language and youthful point of view into Dari poetry, particularly in her ghazals. Soon after the book’s publication, however, Anjuman was beaten to death. Many Afghanis believe that Anjuman was killed by her own husband and his family for the transgression of writing.
Anjuman was born and lived in Herat, the beloved sixth child of her large family. She graduated from high school, despite a two-year interruption caused by Taliban rule in Afghanistan. During this time, she secretly studied literature and began her poetic career in clandestine meetings at the home of a literature professor. She later studied Dari Literature at Herat University, where she was consistently the top student.
Anjuman felt a deep commitment to poetry, despite the risks in writing. “For as long as I can remember,” she wrote, “I have loved poetry, and the chains with which six years of captivity under Taliban rule bound my feet led me to haltingly enter the arena of poetry with the foot of my pen. The encouragement of like-minded friends gave me the confidence to pursue this path, but even now when I take the first step, the tip of my pen trembles, as do I, because I do not feel safe from stumbling on this path, when the way ahead is difficult, and my steps unsteady.”
In “Light Blue Memories,” written weeks after the fall of the Taliban
in 2001, Anjuman addresses the victims of politically enforced silence and asks
what is lost when one’s voice is lost. The poem begins with an address
to the nameless citizens of her country—the women—and goes on to
ask who has “plundered” the riches of their inner lives:
Light Blue Memories
O exiles of the mountain of oblivion!
O the jewels of your names, slumbering in the mire of silence
O your obliterated memories, your light blue memories
In the silty mind of a wave in the sea of forgetting
Where is the clear, flowing stream of your thoughts?
Which thieving hand plundered the pure golden statue of your dreams?
In this storm which gives birth to oppression
Where has your ship, your serene silver mooncraft gone?
This is a true lament, expressed in the cadences and imagery of the sea. The
sensuous beauty of this language and the assertion of images like, “the
jewels of your names,” provides an antidote to the oblivion that Anjuman
bemoans and strengthens her to imagine a death and a calm from which a new reality
may be born:
After this bitter cold which gives birth to death –
If the sea should fall calm
If the cloud should release the heart's knotted sorrows
If the maiden of moonlight should bring love, offer a smile
If the mountain should soften its heart, adorn itself with green,
become fruitful –
Will one of your names, above the peaks,
become bright as the sun?
Here, Anjuman seems almost to anticipate her own fate and posthumous fame, while
more generally wishing for a peace in which her nameless sisters can flourish
and shine. She continues this line of questioning by asking if this utterance—and
these memories—could provide a mirror of hope for those watching the deadly
wave of oppression:
Will the rise of your memories
Your light blue memories
In the eyes of fishes weary of floodwaters and
fearful of the rain of oppression
become a reflection of hope?
Finally, she ends the poem not with these distant others but with her own sisters,
addressing them once more:
O, exiles of the mountain of oblivion!
In “A Voiceless Cry,” also written in 2001, Anjuman uses more straightforward
language to express her compassion for the poorest women of her country, who
appear almost like specters. The poem begins and ends with a metaphor, hopeful
in its promise of life in the desert—“The sound of green footsteps
is the rain.” It continues with a haunting description of the figures:
They're coming in from the road, now
Thirsty souls and dusty skirts brought from the desert
Their breath burning, mirage-mingled
Mouths dry and caked with dust
They're coming in from the road, now
Tormented-bodied, girls brought up on pain
Joy departed from their faces
Hearts old and lined with cracks
Like the repetition of “The sound of green footsteps is the rain,” the
repetition of “They’re coming in from the road now” functions
as a kind of prayer amid Anjuman’s honest description of the parched women.
Anjuman continued her poem with further description of this desertion, and a
beseeching to God:
No smile appears on the bleak oceans of their lips
Not a tear springs from the dry riverbeds of their eyes
O God!
Might I not know if their voiceless cries reach the clouds,
the vaulted heavens?
And, finally, the poem ends again with that metaphor-prayer, uttered more quietly this time, but uttered nonetheless:
The sound of green footsteps is the rain.
Nadia Anjuman’s tragic fate make these words more poignant. They invite
us to imagine—and, ideally, oppose—the annihilating silence of oppression
while we celebrate this young woman whose name and words, thankfully, have not
passed into oblivion.
Thousands of fans and sympathizers attended Nadia Anjuman’s funeral in Herat, and her work continues to be popular in Persian-speaking countries among young people of both sexes. She left behind a six-month-old son, Bahram Saeed.
By Rachel Webster with Zuzanna Olszewska
Poems translated from the Farsi by Zuzanna Olszewska and Belgheis Alavi
A Tribute to Nadia Anjuman
Christine Rhein explains that she began writing “Sparrow’s, Poet’s Deaths” out of frustration, because after learning about Nadia Anjuman’s death on a poetry website, she found very few follow-up news stories. At the same time, “reports about the domino world record attempt and the sparrow seemed to be everywhere.” Christine hopes that her poem not only brings new attention to Nadia Anjuman’s life, but that it also honors the courage of girls and women around the world for whom reading and writing remain dangerous endeavors.
O exiles of the mountain of oblivion!
O the jewels of your names, slumbering in the mire of silence
O your obliterated memories, your light blue memories
In the silty mind of a wave in the sea of forgetting
Where is the clear, flowing stream of your thoughts?
Which thieving hand plundered the pure golden statue of your dreams?
In this storm which gives birth to oppression
Where has your ship, your serene silver mooncraft gone?
After this bitter cold which gives birth to death –
If the sea should fall calm
If the cloud should release the heart's knotted sorrows
If the maiden of moonlight should bring love, offer a smile
If the mountain should soften its heart, adorn itself with green,
become fruitful –
Will one of your names, above the peaks,
become bright as the sun?
Will the rise of your memories
Your light blue memories
In the eyes of fishes weary of floodwaters and
fearful of the rain of oppression
become a reflection of hope?
O, exiles of the mountain of oblivion!
November/December 2001
Translated by Zuzanna Olszewska and Belgheis Alavi
The sound of green footsteps is the rain
They're coming in from the road, now
Thirsty souls and dusty skirts brought from the desert
Their breath burning, mirage-mingled
Mouths dry and caked with dust
They're coming in from the road, now
Tormented-bodied, girls brought up on pain
Joy departed from their faces
Hearts old and lined with cracks
No smile appears on the bleak oceans of their lips
Not a tear springs from the dry riverbeds of their eyes
O God!
Might I not know if their voiceless cries reach the clouds,
the vaulted heavens?
The sound of green footsteps is the rain.
July/August 2002
Translated by Zuzanna Olszewska and Belgheis Alavi
