HUSSEIN HABASCH
KURDISTAN
Hussein Habasch is a poet from Afrin, Kurdistan, born in 1970. He currently lives in Bonn, Germany. His poems have been translated into English, German, Spanish, French, Persian, Uzbek, Albanian, Russian, Romanian, Italian, Serbian, Macedonian, Bulgarian, Polish, Slovenian, Lithuanian, Vietnamese, Nepali, Hindi, Malayalam, Kannada, Tajik, Bengali, Turkish, Berber (Amazigh), Bosnian, Portuguese, Hungarian, Chinese, Greek, Mandarin (the language of Taiwan) and Tzotzil (the language of the Mayan peoples of Mexico). His poetry has been published in more than 200 International Poetry Anthologies and his books include: Drowning in Roses, Fugitives across Evros River, Higher than Desire and more Delicious than the Gazelle’s Flank, Delusions to Salim Barakat, A Flying Angel, No pasarán (in Spanish), Copaci Cu Chef (in Romanian), Dos Árboles and Tiempos de Guerra (in Spanish), Fever of Quince (in Kurdish), Peace for Afrin, Peace for Kurdistan (in English and Spanish), The Red Snow (in Chinese), Dead arguing in the corridors (in Arabic) Drunken trees (in Kurdish), Boredom of a tired statue (in Kurdish), Flor del Espinillo (in Spanish) A Rose for the Heart of Life, selected Poems (in English), Olvido (in Spanish) and La harde de cerfs meurt de soif (in French), Jibîrkirin (in Kurdish), Los Kurdos Y Dios (in Spanish). He has participated in many International Poetry Festivals including: Colombia, Nicaragua, France, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Germany, Romania, Lithuania, Morocco, Ecuador, El Salvador, Kosovo, Macedonia, Costa Rica, Slovenia, China, Taiwan, Cuba, Sweden, New York City, Sarajevo, Greece, Albania, Cyprus, Uruguay, India Rockport (USA), Indonesia and Italy. He has won several awards: The International Best Poet Prize 2016 awarded in China by the International Poetry Translation and Research Centre, the Journal of the World Poets Quarterly (Multilingual) and the Editorial Board of the Chinese Poetry International, the Great Kurdish Poet Hamid Bedirkhan Award, awarded by the General Union of Kurdish Writers and Journalists (2022), the International “Bosnian Stećak” Award for Poetry, awarded by the Bosnia and Herzegovina Writers Union (2022), the Bangladesh Kathak International Literary Prize, awarded at the World Thinkers’ and Writers’ Peace Meet in Calcutta, India (2024) and he has also been rewarded with a honorific price at the Safi International Poetry Forum in Morocco (2024), and he was invited as a featured international poet to read at Walt Whitman’s birthplace in Huntington, New York, for the “Walking with Whitman” program (2025).
IN A COMA (Hussein Habasch)
On May 13, 2020, Hussein Habasch underwent what was meant to be a routine kidney stone operation. But fate had other plans. A critical error during anesthesia plunged him into a deep coma—two harrowing days suspended between life and death. Against all odds, he emerged from the brink, a survivor of what could have been his final sleep. By the fourth day, once released from intensive care, he found himself gripped by an urgent, almost frantic need to write. As if racing against time itself, he poured his soul onto the page in Kurdish—words born from the shadow of death, defiant and alive.
In a coma,
Your body is not yours
Your mind is not yours
Your brain is not yours
Your soul is not yours
Your being is not yours
Your dreams are not yours
Absolutely nothing is yours!
You are just a vulnerable bird,
Stumbling in his flight, like a blind who lost his cane
In a fierce war against blindness.
In a coma,
You don’t know your name or your title
You don’t know your birth date or your age
You don’t know what time you are in or what day
You don’t know what month, what season
What year, what century you are in
Nothing has value in your eternally vast passivity.
In a coma,
You don’t feel the time!
No value for time nor for the clock
No value for the sunrise nor the sunset
No value for morning nor night
No value for light nor darkness
No value for fertility nor drought
No value for trees nor flowers
No value for a butterfly’s tenderness nor a bird’s flutter
No value for the clouds nor the blue sky…
In a coma, you are present
And your real presence is your absence
And getting lost in the abyss of nothingness
Without limbs nor legs nor strong feet!
In a coma,
You forget every day’s walking paths
Forget the road to the coffee shop
Forget the road to the bar
Forget the road to the workplace
Forget the road to the house
Forget your keychain
Forget your keys
Forget your door’s lock
Forget your library
Forget the smell of your books
Forget your notebooks and pens
Forget your poems
Forget your daily rituals
Forget your hat
Forget your coat
Forget your shirt
Forget if you are dressed or naked
No difference!
Forgetting is the mystery of a coma and its blessing.
In a coma,
Nothing has value but the oxygen tube which pumps air
to your lungs
And to the hoses which feed your body with medicines
And to the anesthetics that sedate the already sedated
No value but for the adhesive tapes on your chest which
measure your unfelt heartbeats.
No value but for the bed which they throw you into,
motionless.
Nothing indicates that you breathe.
Nothing indicates that you exist in existence.
In a coma,
You won’t feel pain even if it’s severe
You won’t fight your breath even if it’s a strong rattle
You won’t cry even if there is an obligatory reason to cry
You won’t love, and you won’t know why you won’t
You won’t cry, and you won’t know why you won’t
No astonishment
No outbursts
No amazement . . .
You look like a statue, sculpted from boredom,
Or an invisible icon in an abandoned church.
In a coma,
You are like those monkeys
That don’t see
Don’t hear
Don’t talk
And don’t understand their surroundings
Although
They remain real beings of flesh, blood and tears.
In a coma,
Your eyelids won’t flutter
Your cheeks won’t blush
Your forehead won’t lift up
Your eyelashes won’t blink
Your heart won’t beat
You won’t notice the sweat drop on your forehead
You won’t wipe the black blood stain from your neck
You will just fade away; your capabilities will vanish and
they will become less than an ash and lighter than dust.
Coma is a trick
A plot
A cave
A trap
Beware you don’t get stuck between its sharp teeth
And its fierce claws
Coma is stupidity!
How foolish your intention looks
When you attempt to step on its thresholds,
Trying to enter its vestibule
And its dark terrifying corridors.
In a coma,
Between alertness and absence,
You will probably speak as a great philosopher
Not like any other philosopher
Neither before nor after…
Wisdom after wisdom will come out
From your heavy tongue
And your hoarse throat
And your wounded pronunciation,
And your sore lips.
In a coma,
You are dead.
Yes, you are dead!
No one can wake you up
And give your body and soul their life back,
Except your lover’s tender hand
And her heart’s infinite music.
So, listen!
So, listen!
Listen with all your senses
And with all the remaining breath in your chest.
Then slowly, slowly you will open your eyes
And inevitably, you will wake up from your stupid coma.
16-17/5/2020
University Hospital in Bonn, Germany
TOMORROW, YOU WILL BE AN OLD MAN (Hussein Habasch)
A man envisions his own aging, a solitary future where time has worn down his body, silenced his relevance, and left him surrounded yet unseen. As he grows old, forgotten by family and mocked for his convictions, he finds solace only in memory and sarcasm. With illness gnawing at him and death drawing near, his final wish is simple and quietly tragic: to be buried among strangers, where perhaps he won’t feel so alone.
Tomorrow, you will be an old man
The cane, always with you
You will walk alone
You will mutter to yourself like all old geezers do
You will become obstinate, hard of hearing, and slow
You will ask for help when you need it
But no one will respond
You will dream of the past
And the good old days
While your grandson will think of the future
And days to come
You will curse this vapid generation
Repeating itself like a broken record
How wonderful our generation was!
You will be the butt of jokes in the family
They will laugh at you and your positions
Which you think are right on
Your lips will let out a sarcastic smile
Whenever they mention words like “stubbornness”,
“Vigor”, and “faith in the future”
You might even laugh
Your bones will soften
Illnesses will roam freely in your body
Without permission
All your desires will be extinguished,
Except the desire to die
There will be no friend or a companion
Loneliness will be your support and comrade
You will always be ready to depart
The threshold of the grave will entice you
And keep you company
All the angels will betray you and leave
Only Azrael will approach you as a last friend
Perhaps you will say just as you are about to go:
If I die burry me here in the strangers’ cemetery
Perhaps these words
Will be you your final wish.
This poem translated by Sinan Anton
I AM SORRY MOTHER! (Hussein Habasch)
Hussein Habasch speaks directly to his mother, burdened by guilt and sorrow. He apologizes for the pain of his birth over fifty years ago and for the deeper wound of his long absence. Across borders and scattered by exile, her children live in fragments: in Denmark, Germany, Istanbul, Aleppo, and refugee camps in al-Shahba. Her heart bears the weight of separation, loss, and longing. With tender remorse, he offers a collective apology for himself, and for all her far-flung, displaced children who have unintentionally turned her love into endurance.
It is me, Hussein Habasch. I am sorry mother, for the labor pains I caused you when I was born more than fifty years ago. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you for my twenty-five years of enforced absence from you. Oh mother, how can your tired heart bear all this pain? Where does all this patience come from? I am sorry, mother. I am sorry on behalf of your absent daughters and sons. Two exiled sons in Denmark, four others in Germany, a son in Istanbul, a daughter living on the edge of humanity in Aleppo after her home was occupied in Afrin, and another daughter living in refugee camps in al-Shahba after her home was also occupied in Afrin! And a big family, homeless in so many places. Mother, we, your exiled sons and daughters, sorry for all the pain we have caused and are still causing to you.
MY UNCLE HUSSEIN (Hussein Habasch)
The narrator recalls being named after his uncle Hussein, a man whose life ended violently beneath a speeding train in Aleppo. His death remains shrouded in myth and speculation: was it despair, fate, or the pull of forbidden love that led him to the tracks? Each version talks more about those left behind than the man himself. Named in his shadow, the narrator carries not just a name, but a legacy stitched with grief, mystery, and unanswered questions.
When I was born,
my father named me after his older brother
Hussein – who was run over by a fast train
crossing the city of Aleppo at lightning speed!
Many were the stories about his death.
Someone said that he was desperate for life so desperate
that he flung his body under the wheels of the train.
Someone told of an ineffable divine force
forcefully pushing him towards the railway
while the train was crossing and what had to happen, happened.
Another story stated that he was pursuing a woman.
He had fallen so much in love with her
that he was blinded from seeing anything but her,
so, the train ran over him while he was pursuing the love of his heart,
who was at the other end of the railway.
Many were the sayings and the stories,
but the truth bright like the sun is that my uncle
Hussein was run over by a fast train
crossing the city of Aleppo at lightning speed,
and in that very moment his existence ended forever.
What I don’t understand is why every time I see a fast train,
I run to it, as if some mysterious magic
that I have no control over pushes me forcefully towards it.
Really why…?
WEEPING (Hussein Habasch)
Hussein Habasch paints a portrait of a mother consumed by relentless grief, losing one son after another in the span of a single day. Morning, noon, and night mark not the passage of time, but the rhythm of unbearable loss. By the next day, the grief has multiplied, mourning the mourners, until even tears run dry. In the end, sorrow gives way to silence, and the town drowns not in cries, but in blood.
She wept in the morning
She wept at noon
She wept in the evening
At morning she lost a son
At noon she lost another
At evening she lost the last of the bunch
In the next morning, they cried for her
At noon they cried for whom were crying for her
At evening there was no remaining cries
The whole town was swamped with blood.
HOW DO I EXPLAIN …? II (Hussein Habasch)
In this sweeping confession of longing and awe, Hussein Habasch wrestles with the limits of language in the face of overwhelming love. He tries, again and again, to explain to a woman, tall, radiant, unknowingly divine, the depth of his feeling: how her eyes hold sky and sea, how her body stirs nature itself, how her laughter rewrites the world into joy. But he also speaks of contrasts, between her peaceful land and his war-torn homeland, between her serenity and his suffering, only to find that love still bridges them. In every metaphor, every imagined republic, every trembling verse, he seeks to tell her: she is the light, the music, the breath of life itself. And yet, he ends where he begins, with the unanswerable ache of not knowing how to say it all.
How do I explain to that tall blonde woman like a poplar tree, that her left eye is a sea and her right eye is a sky, and that I would like to be the only one drowning in the depths of that great sea and to be the bird always flying in that wonderful sky?
How do I explain to her that if she walks in autumn, the yellow leaves will turn green, the trees will sway according to the sway of her waist, and the roses will bloom out of season according to the roses that spring from her body?
How can I explain to her that her country’s lakes are similar to my country’s lakes and her country’s mountains are similar to my country’s mountains and that the only difference is that her country’s lakes remain pure, clear and blue all the time, while my country’s lakes are polluted and poisoned by some people from time to time! And that the mountains of her country remain calm, whose peaks play with the wind without interruption, while my country’s mountains remain restless, bombarded with chemical weapons from time to time, but despite that, the lakes and mountains of her country and my country are similar, and perhaps they are eager to embrace each other or they are in an endless state of love…?
How do I explain to her that invisible wings flutter around her always and forever, protecting her from all harm that might befall her, wrapping her in their warm feathers if she feels cold in her insides, and if she wants to fly, those invisible wings stick to her body and fly her?
How do I explain to her that light has been shining from and for her since the beginning of creation, and that the world would be plunged into darkness without her light?
How do I explain to her that her breath soothes the hearts of the stricken cities, and that a touch of tenderness from her heart restores joy to the heart of an entire grieving people?!
How do I explain to her that all the letters I write, all the notebooks in which I jot down my strange love poems, and all the fragments of love I scatter on the face of the white papers are for her, and nothing has been written or will be written for any other woman?
How do I explain to her that her laughter is a joy to nature, and if she laughs from the bottom of her heart, the nests of birds increase on the trees, the butterflies multiply in the fields, the dew gently lands on the lips of flowers and grasses, and life in all its aspects becomes more loving, generous, giving, calm and peaceful…?
How do I explain to her that when I tell her to send me your headache, your cold and all the diseases that may afflict you, that I say it sincerely and seriously despite some joking in what I say. And that I can bear and carry all the diseases for her, all the fatigue, restlessness, exhaustion, stress, tension and anxiety with the utmost joy, happiness and satisfaction…?
How do I explain to her that rivers, seas and springs want to bathe in her body water, and that they only become clear, pure and sparkling when they bathe in her body?
How can I explain to her that the Rhine that runs with clarity of mind, the swans that sway on its surface like princesses, the ducks that are chock full of grace and beauty, the gulls that fly skilfully above it, the fish that jump happily from its heart, the tree roots that feed on its water, and I, I with all my madness, poetry, feeling and love… We love her endlessly, and that her love, only her love, gives us all the means of live?
How do I explain to her that she is a flute that always plays under a blessed tree in Snej, a tanbur between the fingers of the olive fields in Afrin, a violin on the banks of rivers and lakes, a piano in the throats of sparrows and birds, a saxophone that applauds the grace of gazelles, a guitar that repairs the cracks in life, and all the enchanting musical instruments that heal the wounds of the heart of a poet who loves her madly?
How do I explain to her that there is a democratic republic whose name begins and ends with the letter A, that the capital of that republic is its heart, and that I am a good citizen of that republic and I would like to be the only resident of its capital?
How do I explain to her that Snej and Afrin were twins centuries ago, but one of them was destined to live in Asia amidst hardships, wars and disasters, and the other was destined to live in Europe amidst the beautiful nature, far from hardships, wars and disasters. But despite their separation, they are still connected by heart and soul and think like Siamese twins as if they had never been separated?
How do I explain to her that my tired head can only rest on her chest, that my sad heart can only rejoice when it is in her heart, that this melancholy can only be erased by her whiteness, and that this depression can only be alleviated by the heat of her breath?
How do I explain to her that she fell like a divine meteor from the heavens on to my heart and split it in two halves, and that this split she made in my heart, despite the unceasing bleeding, is the source of existence, life and unending happiness?
How…?
