December- 2023

Abstract

In this conversation, Essmat Sophie (author of the novel and animation film Dancing Amid Fire, Rising Above Ruins), talks with Wendelmoet Hamelink (researcher on gender, migration, activism, and conflict at the University of Oslo), about her interest in literature, about the creation of her novel and film, and about her feminist life in the Diaspora. The conversation reveals much about the fragmented lives of people who left Iran and can never return, and about the history of a city in Rojhelat, Sine/Sanandaj. It shows the complexity of Kurdish or Iranian women's triple struggle to escape political oppression, state violence, male dominance, as well as enduring a life of exile and marginalization. Through Essmat’s memories about literature gatherings in Sine during her teenage and university years, the article shows how women writers served as her role models and managed to deeply impact a young woman’s life, even if their names and works may be unknown to many. This also shows how activist lives can be found in unexpected places and through creative strategies developed by women on the margins.

Introduction

In this conversation we reflect on Essmat Sophie’s recently published novel and animation film, both named Dancing Amid Fire, Rising Above Ruins (2023 London: Transnational Press), and talk about her life inspirations that eventually made her publish these works. The conversation is structured in three parts: literary inspirations; the novel; and the film. Essmat won several awards (amongst them the Toronto Female Eye Festival Award) with the short animation that brings to life a few paragraphs of the novel. The film managed to capture international audiences because of its capability to show in only six minutes the impact of war on the life of a small girl, who, as an adult, tries to give a different experience to her own daughter. The novel is naturally much more elaborate and manages to shed light on different themes at the same time: an important and often forgotten part of Rojhelat’s history, the life of a Kurdish woman in exile, her experiences with violence and abuse by men, as well as her struggle to live a free life.  

Hamelink initiated the interview as part of the ALCITfem research project[1]. She visited Essmat in Norway where she lives. We spent a weekend together and had ongoing conversations about both our interests in feminism, Kurdish women’s lives, and Kurdish women’s histories. The interview was not only about the novelb and film, but also about Essmat’s life. It reveals how women’s resistance against regime suppression, male dominance, and patriarchal society is not only found in large political or social movements, but also through acts such as writing and creating. In Essmat’s words, “When I am indifferent, I am not an activist. But when I care about things, I am an activist.”

The novel has two main characters, Tara and Hiwa, and is written from both their perspectives in alternating chapters. Tara is a middle-aged single mother who lives in Norway with her two teenage children, whereas Hiwa is an elderly man who lives alone in Istanbul. Both originate from Sanandaj/Sine in Rojhelat. Through their memories, the reader learns about the revolutionary history of the city that was attacked by the Iranian regime shortly after the 1979 revolution; about the consequences of the Iran/Iraq war; and about daily life experiences of both characters studying at Tehran University, but in different time periods. Another important theme in the novel is the sexual abuse Tara experiences from Hiwa. In her life in Norway, she tries to grapple with the consequences of his assault and overcome her trauma. We get to know Hiwa through his, often lonely, reflections on his life and contacts with different women. His elite background and his university position have turned him into a selfish, narcissistic man who is unable to positively connect to the women in his life, and instead tries to destroy them. Both characters live in exile and have different experiences with their migrant lives in Norway and Turkey. The novel in this way also touches upon life in exile and the fragmentation of memories depending on different spaces where the protagonists have established their lives.

We spoke about Essmat’s life and work during three interviews (in English) conducted at different meetings in summer 2023, and the interviews were fully recorded and transcribed by Hamelink. Together with Essmat, we selected the sections most relevant   and Essmat read the conversation for final corrections. For clarity, she rephrased some of the sentences and added explanations where necessary. We sometimes use the Kurdish terms Başur (South), Bakur (North), Rojhelat (East), and Rojava (West) to refer respectively to Iraqi, Turkish, Iranian, and Syrian Kurdistan.

Conversation part 1: Literary inspirations

Wendelmoet Hamelink (Wendy): You have just published your first novel and short animation film. Before that, you also published a translation of Sherko Beko's poetry into Norwegian[2] and a collection with short stories[3]. In this interview we would like to get to know you and your work a little bit better.

Essmat Sophie (Sophie): I'm originally from Sanandaj in Iran's Kurdish region. I lived there until I graduated from Tehran University. Then I worked for two years at Kurdistan University before having to leave Iran. I waited two years in Turkey before getting refugee status in the United States, where I went in 2002. Then I moved to Norway and have been there since 2005.

I have always been passionate about literature since I was around ten or twelve years old. Aside from the well-known classic works in Persian, it was wonderful to be able to read Kurdish poems and stories. Unfortunately, I never got the opportunity to learn Kurdish in an accredited school. So, I learned it from the Serwe magazine, which was a literary and poetic publication in Sorani and Erdalani, the dialect of the area where I come from. Because the alphabet was similar to Persian (Farsi), I studied Kurdish on my own and with the help of one of my brothers.

I tried to read the poems of Sherko Beko, Nali, Hemen, and other well-known Kurdish poets. I was conscious that I needed to follow this aspect of my identity. And I was drawn to the sound and rhythm of Kurdish poetry and literature. My mother, grandmother, and uncles all sang Kurdish songs to us as children. They sang lullabies and performed hora, and siyacamane, a type of storytelling: songs that narrate stories.

Wendy: And were there any other people in your family or around you who were reading in Sorani or who were interested in that?

Sophie: Just my brother and my father. Because we didn't have any sources, they were not available. There were only the classic poets like Hemen, Nali, Mahwi, we had those books in our library. My father had a big library and everybody in the family was engaged in reading and studying. We had another dialect, Hawrami, and I liked it. We had some neighbors who spoke Hawrami. There is a great poet from Hawraman named Mawlawi Tawagozi. I didn't understand everything he wrote, but when my father read it to me, I enjoyed the rhythm and melody and tried to read it as well. I was drawn to language.

Wendy: Was it special that your family had those Sorani books in the house or did other families also have that?

Sophie: It was common in many families. Most of the families we visited held classic works. Sanandaj is a very cultural city and people have a passion for music, song, and literature. We also have female poets like Mastoureh Ardalan and a few other female writers. When I was almost 10, 12 years old, it must have been in 1987, I started going to literature gatherings with my brother, who was also very interested in literature. Most of the gatherings were about Persian literature, but when I was about 12, 13 years old, I noticed that people in Sanandaj were more aware of their Kurdish identity.  I believe that before the revolution, it was illegal to own or sell Kurdish books, but after the revolution, it became easier to get those books from Iraqi Kurdistan. The Islamic Regime was not concerned about classics, and no one ever asked, "Why do you have these books?” But it was different for contemporary poets and writers such as Sherko Bekas. Even though he held very critical views on politics and society, he was allowed to visit Iran several times. At the same time, the Iranian government was more sensitive about his poems. I remember those days when I was working at the university, they contacted me and inquired why I had a book by Sherko Bekes at my office.

Wendy: What about Mastoureh Ardalan, was she also suspicious?

Sophie: No, she was not suspicious at all. First of all, she was a classic poet and from the bourgeois class. She didn't write anything political or critical about society. She just wrote romantic poetry, poetry about nature, or love. So even though I admire her, she was a strong woman, but she was not a role model for me like women who stood up against the rules and traditions. The first time I heard about her, I was maybe in the first grade. Since my brother and my father were very engaged in literature, we had a book of Mastoureh Ardalan in our library. We also listened to the Kurdistan radio where they talked about her and other classics. In our house we used to switch on Kurdistan radio in the evening, almost every day. So, while I did other things, I always heard those names. I think I only read a few of her poems. I didn't like it, I don't remember why, but it was not attractive to me.

I'd like to talk about another woman here since I believe she played an important role in my literary life. When I went to those gatherings in Sanandaj, most of the attendees were men. After a while my brother didn't like me to go there, because 95% of them were men. But my father and other family members didn't put any limitations. I kept attending those events and I met two women who were very good in literature. One of them was Simin Chaichi, the other one was Jila Hosseini, both of them Kurdish. Jila Hosseini was a very strong, beautiful woman and she had very powerful poems. I remember that she showed us that her husband beat her because he didn’t like her to be engaged in poetry. She first told us about the limitations placed on her by her husband to attend the gatherings, and then she spoke to us about the limitations imposed by the patriarchal culture. Although she was a capable strong woman, and her literary works were very deep and valuable, the men in the forum tried to ignore her ability and the depth of her poems. As I previously mentioned, there were other capable women who, while I was not a fan of them, I can point to as pioneers and breakers of taboos, for example Simin Chaichi, Shaheen Talabani, and FataneWalidi. I've dedicated my previous book, a short story collection, to these three women. Maybe from today’s perspective they are just normal women, but at that time, they did something good, something new. But the most important one for me was Jila Hosseini, she had a lot of impact on my literary life.

Wendy: Can you say a little bit more about these gatherings, how they went, what you were doing? Or when you visited Jila's house, how those type of gatherings went?

Sophie: It was a two, three, or four-hour afternoon gathering. Most of them were young people, but some were older. There were mostly men, although there were a few women as well. They invited poets and literature enthusiasts. Some arrived from Iraq's Kurdistan, and when they visited Iran, they were invited, or they invited a poet from another city. Everyone came to hear what they had written, whether it was a short story or a poem, in Sorani or in Persian. I went to the gatherings and I read [my poems] and I got a lot of inspiration. At the gatherings they liked it that I was so young and so serious about my work and meetings. I discovered many sides of my Kurdish identity in those gatherings as well. Sometimes Jila Hosseini invited us to her home. She knew that we were serious literature followers, each time we were with five to seven girls. She couldn't invite men, she already had a lot of problems because of her husband. We read poems there and discussed literature. She also opened up a lot to us about her private life. In those gatherings at Jila Hosseini's home, I discovered not only my literary identity, but also my gender identity. And I realized at a very young age that I have multiple cultural identities. Some of them are permanent and inherited from the past, while others I could change and I could use them to build my future cultural identity. 

Wendy: You went to Tehran and studied information science. Was it a completely different atmosphere in Tehran?

Sophie: I made some wonderful contacts and had some excellent professors at our university. They dealt extensively with social issues, such as assisting Afghan immigrant children, or made library and other services for small children in jails. They made a library for them, they wanted to develop such services in Iran. They thought about the social aspects of the library and every other public sphere and how it can help different groups in the society. With some of the teachers we had close contact, they invited us to their home. Some of them were very important figures in Iran, not only at the university but also in cultural development. One was Dr. Abbas Horry, while another one was Touran Mirhadi. She was the co-founder of The Children's Book Council of Iran. Another teacher was Noushafarin Ansari, she studied in the United States. She belonged to a higher social class and had many possibilities and resources, so when she returned to Iran, she used her resources to help immigrants and those living in underprivileged areas. So, despite the fact that my degree was unrelated to literature and social science, I was able to make such contacts. I also took several literature courses at Tehran University and made friends with students from the arts, cinema, and literature departments. We went to the theater and the movies together. Tehran was a great place for cultural activities back then, and I believe it still is. Every weekend, we could go to a literary event, the theater, or an art gallery.  We were a group of girls who were engaged in reading, writing, that was our world. And I always had contact with the teachers who were involved in social activities. Through them I also got to know women activists. Some of them were not in the university and didn't have higher education, but they were involved in the gatherings. It was a very rich life we had at Tehran University.

Wendy: Maybe you can say something about how all this led in the end to you leaving Iran?

Sophie: When I returned to Sanandaj, I worked at Kurdistan University for two years. And over those two years, I kept contact with the women and teachers I knew in Tehran. I couldn't create a good connection with my coworkers in Sanandaj because I was still quite young when I started working at the university. Instead, I had contact with the students, who were excellent. They came to my office and talked about everything, whether it was private or public. There was a group of activist students, some of them were very engaged. Some of them had gotten involved in the PKK which was very active in those years. They invited us to some gatherings, and some very good students attended. Then we never heard about them again, they went to the mountains, they left the city.

In our gatherings, we always discussed women's issues. I stayed in touch with the women from Tehran, and they came to visit from Tehran, Isfahan, Shiraz, and other places. We had get-togethers at my house or at the homes of other friends. We talked about these issues and this was very normal for us. When we were with Kurdish women, we talked about becoming more aware of our Kurdish identity. When we got together with women from different cities, we talked more about women’s issues. Environmental issues were not as developed as they are today, such as why people throw out items in nature. We discussed it and tried to take action. We had a mountain climbing group or tour groups and we exchanged our thoughts and ideas there. Then some of my friends were arrested, but I don’t want to talk a lot about it. My friends were persecuted, and I was afraid of that and left Iran.

Conversation part 2: The novel

Wendy: The novel is provocative in different ways, whether it is about the Iranian regime, the position of Kurds, erotic scenes written by a woman, the open discussion of sexual abuse, or Hiwa's role and thoughts about this. I was wondering every time I read in it: didn't you in any way feel a need to self-censor yourself while writing?

Sophie: I didn't feel like self-censoring, I felt like self-releasing. It was a burden, and I put that burden into words. I tried to cross limitations. Maybe I wasn't aware of some self-censorship, but in those areas where I was, I sought to push through the restrictions and boundaries that our culture, history, and society impose on us, particularly on female writers. Novels must swim against the flow. In a world ordered by sexual imbalance, pleasure and desire have been split between active/male and passive/female. The conversations between the characters show that we can go out of that circle and think critically about our culture and the values that are important in our society. I crossed the limitations intentionally and didn’t care about what society expects from me. So, in many cases, I was rioting against the culture, the values and structures, not only social structures but literary forms and structures as well.

Wendy: But at the moment that it was going to be published, didn’t you have that kind of feeling of “what will people think of it”?

Sophie: Yes, exactly, I had that for many chapters, especially for chapter 13. I had that feeling very strongly because I was a little bit worried about how people were going to judge me, because I already crossed many limitations as a woman. Many people didn't like it when I stood up against patriarchal or popular norms and those who reinforce them, or when I spoke out against a sexual harassment and a wide range of issues I think every writer who writes against the tide will be worried about how people will judge them. But it was not a very permanent thought for me. I had to go beyond those things. If people judge me, they already judged me in other cases.

Wendy: But what about politically? Do you have any fear that this would have any political consequences, in Iran?

Sophie: Yes, but I already cannot go back to Iran, I already lost many things. I already paid a high price for what I stand for. If the Iranian government knows about it, if it will be translated to Persian or something like that, they will be more aware about what I am doing. But this is nothing new. There are so many other books like this, it is not the first one. The Iranian embassy are following us in different stages, but the Iranian government cannot go and do whatever they want to these writers. So, what should I be worried about? Some writers sacrificed their lives because they wrote something. A writer writes to change the world, knowing fully well that she/he probably can't, but also knowing that literature is essential to the world. As James Baldwin says: “The world changes according to the way people see it, and if you alter, even but a millimeter the way people look at reality, then you can change it”.  So why should my private life matter if literature could change the reality or alter it.

Wendy: There is very little written about the history of Sanandaj, about this part of Kurdish history. It really touched me to read it. And I thought that this could also be special for other people who come from the same area, to read this in writing, maybe for the first time.

Sophie: What is so important in writing, is that we as people from Rojhelat, Kurdistan, we have been dehumanized. So, when you give them life, give them a voice, and put them in the spotlight, you re-humanize them. We are dehumanized, silenced, and marginalized not just in the context of Iran and that geography, but also compared to other parts of Kurdistan. I've received some feedback from readers of my novel who are from Rojhelat. This novel has had a profound effect on them, and they have said that it feels as if I have written their life story. They saw themselves in it as if it were a mirror.

It is very important you mention this because I have many friends from Bashur, Bakur, and Rojava who are unaware of Rojhelat history or what happened because the spotlight has always been on other places. We went through a lot of things that were unfamiliar to individuals from other parts. Almost none of my friends from other parts of Kurdistan were aware that we had been subjected to a 24-day government attack in Sanandaj, as well as the Mariwan exodus.[4] It exists in some literary works, such as in one of Sherko Beko's poems, but it is not written elaborately. Some people from Rojhelat wrote very good articles or books about it. I read a lot of these books, two of them are written by Golrokh Ghobadi, who is a writer from Rojhelat and lives in Sweden.[5] Even though these historical events are essential in our history, hardly any of our writers wrote anything literary about the events in Kurdistan. Or perhaps it is written, but I am unfamiliar with it.

Wendy: How did you feel writing about Hiwa? For me as a woman, I found it striking that you wrote from his perspective. We often experience harassment and violence by men, but to go inside their psychology, to understand what moves them, makes it more insightful.

Sophie: Hiwa is human as well. I had to look at Hiwa as a human with positive and negative attributes. He is a human with all his characteristics. In our life, maybe we meet many men or women, maybe they hurt us, they damage some part of our soul, but at the same time, they are human as well, with their history, with their political viewpoints and their psychological problems.  There is no “us” and “them” for authors. There are just human with their stories and silences. One must be extremely naïve or dishonest to believe that individuals choose their action or beliefs regardless of their circumstances, their situation, and their environment. Hiwa does not represent evil. There are many highly educated narcissistic men in our society. He is a good example of this type of person. We cannot just blame him because of his characteristics, we need to think about him as the outcome of a patriarchal society, a society that values women only through their body, and when they see a strong woman who swims against the flow of social norms, they want to destroy her. I had to do a lot of thinking and reading about psychoanalysis. About narcissistic personality disorder.  As a literary student, I've learned that I must see things through multiple lenses, not only history, politics, class, race, feminism, and ethnicity, but also a psychoanalytic lens. I had another version of the book, many years ago, but more based on my personal experiences. So, I decided to include someone else in the book who can show what happened before the Iranian revolution, because the current situation in Kurdistan and Iran is the result of the past. Hiwa was the pre-revolutionary voice.

Wendy: You did a lot of preparation for this novel, and you interviewed people. How did you go about it?

Sophie: I learned it from Elif Shafak. She said that in order to write Bastard of Istanbul, she had to live with an Armenian family. She lived with them, she experienced what they experienced, and they shared their thoughts, their history. It was not enough to just read a book. It is so important to go and observe what people think. Since the second narrator of the novel is Hiwa, a seventy-year-old man, I had to get to know him and the time he lived in as a child and youth, and I had to get to know the political and social atmosphere of his time, as well as his personality. From Golrokh Ghobadi and a few other friends, I received names. I contacted them and told them that I wanted to write a novel. Since I knew that I wouldn't get many personal, intimate things from men, I questioned them mainly about politics and history, how they felt about their time at the university in Tehran. I asked about their political stance and the types of books they kept in their rooms. I enquired deeply about the books they read, the setting at the university, the circumstances of the time, and the talks and discussions they had with other people. Most of the minor details I provided in the novel are true accounts from people who I spoke to.

The interviews were meant to find out more about their ideologies and their thoughts. And as James Baldwin always said, you cannot escape from the pathology of your country. We are part of that country, that history, that political situation. All these things shape the people; their identity and their definition of themselves. So, the interviews were important for me. You can look at this as the death of the author. I like that concept, the death of the author, we use it in feminist theory and literary theory as well. I think that it was important for me to realize that the author is not so important. Writing is kind of collective wisdom, and a novel can be seen as collective knowledge, collective historical, political knowledge.

Wendy: Your novel seems in many ways like a feminist interpretation of a Kurdish woman's life. Would you call it feminist and was it your intention to write a feminist critique?

Sophie: For me as a woman who was always very engaged with feminist theory, it is a very feminist book. Hanar, Tara, Mahguli, all of them represent part of women. And it is up to the definition of feminist, how you define feminist. We can think of feminist as just one part of the larger cause of defending minority rights or oppressed people's rights. As a woman from that society, I was a part of that oppressed minority group. And I and all women around me experienced intersectional oppression. Some of them could talk about it and put it into words, some of them couldn't. They just acted. So, the difference between me and those who acted in practice is that I put it into words, not as an academic text, but by using imagination and literature.

I learned a lot about feminist concepts and its theories. The most feminist figures I met in Kurdistan or Iran were people who were not prominent, such as my grandmother, a friend's grandma, or a friend's mother; they served as role models in my private life. And when I look at those theories, then I think: “they are my material, they are my people, they are the women and men of my society. If literature is about holding a mirror in front of reality, how can I not write a feminist work?”

Wendy: Did you feel that writing this novel made you - that's what I could imagine myself- made you connected, like connecting all these pieces together, in one book?

Sophie: I'm happy you mentioned it since I've always thought of myself as having many parts, each of which is located in a different location. I wanted to collect them. I've always felt incomplete and wished for the possibility to return to that moment. I often dream about the streets or neighborhoods I knew when I was 6 or 7 years old. Not just myself, but many other women are not whole or complete. We have bits of ourselves in other locations. And I wanted to collect them. When I finished the book, it felt like a relief because I could go back and look at these aspects of myself in a new light.

Conversation part 3: the film

Wendy: How did the film develop? How did you get the idea?

Sophie: I had to edit the book many times, go through it several times during these years. There were some chapters or paragraphs, each time I read them, it made me either cry or laugh loudly. It was so alive for me. So, I thought: “okay, I have to do something more with that paragraph”. I talked with an animator in Iran and asked him to just draw some pictures for me. Then we thought to make an animation film of it. I wanted to have more minutes but I didn’t have any funding or support to do that. Maybe the red shoe as a symbol of desire, of aspiration, of hope, and a symbol of what we lost, can tell a lot. Even though we have a background of trauma and loss, we can still give hope and aspiration to the new generation. We don't need to continue staying in that circle that makes the new generation go through loss again. Instead, we can learn and gain things from our loss or our trauma. The first comment I received was from a man who is not familiar with literature, or film. He is just a very normal, usual man from the same city. He saw the film and he said: “It was just 5-6 minutes, but I saw all of my life there”. And that gave me the courage to dare to send it to other places, because I had not dared to send it anywhere.

The film begins with the graveyard in Sanandaj, Taile. It is so familiar for each and every family and individual of this area because everybody has a precious body there. It is like a symbol of the city, a symbol of resistance. So, it begins at the graveyard, how we children had to go with our parents and play in the graveyard. All of these are symbolic for people who lived in Sanandaj. Death and life were intertwined, for us.

Wendy: Okay, my very last question is this. Can we see your book and animation as a form of activism, that is a continuation of what you did before you left Iran?

Sophie: Yes, because I think this work is like bringing the past to the present, or going from present to past. The intention was to bring the past to the present and show that it is a continuum. As a woman from that area, I had to be activist. Not in the normal usual definition, but as someone who is always in movement and wanted to change something. In that definition, I think I was an activist, and I am. Writing is a kind of resistance. Creation, not just writing, every kind of creation. As a resistant person, you can create as well, these things have a dialectic relationship, because you create and you resist, and you resist and you create. They go intertwined with each other. So not activism in its usual definition, but activism as someone who is not dumb and not indifferent. When I am indifferent, I am not an activist. But when I care about things, I am an activist.

[1] Activism and its Moral and Cultural Foundation: Alternative Citizenship and Women’s Roles in Kurdistan and the Diaspora. This is a collaborative project of researchers from Jagiellonian University, Cracow, University of Oslo, Cracow Economic University, and the Fafo Institute for Labour and Social Research in Oslo. It is funded by Norwegian Financial Mechanism 2014-2021, project registration number 2019/34/H/HS2/00541/.

[2] Sherko Bekas. (2013). In the Eye of the Storm. Kurdish Poems. Translated by Essmat Sophie and Mays Haraldsen (In Norwegian). Oslo: Dreyer Forlag.

[3] Essmat Sophie. (2021). Last Day of Autumn. London: Transnational Press.

[4] See for an analysis of both events: Allan Hassaniyan. (2021). Kurdish Politics in Iran. Crossborder Interactions and Mobilisation since 1947. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 98-125.

[5] Golrokh Ghobadi. (2017). Poppies on Rocks: Life and Time of a Kurdish Woman in Iran (in Persian). Stockholm.