Gholamhossein Sa'edi
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Gholam-Hossein Sa'edi (January 15, 1936 in Tabriz – November 23, 1985 in Paris) |
Rooted in Oneself
...It was only during the years 1945–46 that schoolchildren in Azerbaijan realized that school wasn’t such a terrifying place after all, and that one could not only avoid suffering from lessons and homework but even greatly enjoy them—because suddenly, the monstrous foreign language had been expelled from the classrooms, and everyone read and wrote in the same language they spoke.
Before that, school was a daily nightmare. It was as if the child were being handed over each day to an island whose inhabitants were forced to speak the language of Gog and Magog. Not understanding those alien words was not only punished—it was accompanied by immense humiliation. Speaking one's own language was met with a “gentle” touch of willow sticks on the palms. And even if Persian-speaking children were spared such suffering, they still enjoyed Fridays and holidays far less.
For Azerbaijani children, school was not a place to learn literacy but to learn a foreign language—Persian. And while this burden may not have always driven children to flee school, it was certainly oppressive. In that single year, children came to understand the true meaning of words in their mother tongue—the words of peasants, workers, and ordinary people in the streets and bazaars. And right after the arrival of the “victorious army,” textbooks returned to Persian, and reading and writing in the local language were completely banned, because Turkish, in its own homeland, had become the language of foreigners and foreign sympathizers. (sic)
Government agents of the central regime in Azerbaijan, to impose the tyrannical dominance of the monarchy, used all kinds of weapons—most notably the dagger of the Persian language. So much so that writing or printing even a few words in the local language was considered a serious crime. Typesetters at print shops were ordered to translate Turkish words into Persian before placing them in texts.
As a result, ordinary people needed translators to understand newspapers and obituary announcements pasted on the city walls—especially in cinemas, where, without exaggeration, the noise and chatter of amateur interpreters in Tabriz theaters was louder than the film itself. Only during silent films did silence truly reign.
However, the progressive underground movements before the 1953 coup published a significant amount of newspapers, journals, and books in the local language, which reached the hands of the youth. This was a powerful means of keeping the people’s native language alive. One could clearly see how Persian words were eating away and destroying a living language—like a blight—when comparing village speech to that of small towns, small towns to cities, and cities to larger cities. The written literature was practically gone, and even spoken language was seriously endangered. In conversations, many “educated” individuals used mostly Persian words, aside from verbs and a few untranslatable words. Some even went so far as to feel ashamed to speak Turkish in their own homes with their families.
But the 1953 coup once again imposed the Reza Khan-era atmosphere. The same path and method returned: the forced imposition of Persian, supposedly for national unity—because a unified language was deemed essential. If they had their way, they would have forced everyone to speak nothing but Persian—or more precisely, the language of the capital. No exaggeration here: they wanted the Tehrani accent to replace even Persian itself. Khorasani, Shirazi, southern, northern accents—all were trampled beneath the weight of the capital's dialect. In such conditions, who could step forward to preserve and keep their national language alive—without hesitation, despite countless potential dangers?
Mohammad-Ali Farzaneh had this courage in full. A man outwardly quiet but inwardly a volcano, he advanced this path with precision. His book on Azerbaijani Turkish Grammar was met with total silence in supposedly academic and literary circles in the country—as if it didn’t even exist. I personally witnessed it being hailed as a major event in modern linguistics at the University of Cologne.
Or Qara Chorlu (B.Q. Sahand)—who kept his eyes shut to fame, constantly writing, without being able to publish. Just a few months after the fall of the Pahlavi regime, he was forever silenced. Sahand, despite receiving no public response to his works, made enormous efforts in various fields. He masterfully combined Turkish words, at times reaching the level of miracle.
There was H.M. Sediq, who, under state pressure, had no choice but to write in Persian. He put in tremendous effort introducing Azerbaijani literature, especially written works and writers who wrote in their mother tongue—and continues to do so today, with all his focus on reviving written Azerbaijani Turkish literature, especially contemporary works.
And Samad, had another kind of passion in this matter. Early on, he didn’t fully accept that it was solely the repression of the monarchy that prevented people like him from writing and publishing in their language. He believed a lack of courage was also to blame. It was our right, he said, to write and publish in the language we speak. When he compiled and published Pare Pare ("Shattered"), he chose a pseudonym—not for fear, but because he despised false fame. He hadn’t done anything extraordinary, he claimed—just gathered what he liked into a single volume. Pare Pare hadn't even been widely distributed before it was confiscated and destroyed by security agents. Yes, Pare Pare—a collection of Turkish poems in various forms and themes—was considered a security threat by the cultural authorities simply because it was in Turkish.
When Sahand’s “Sazimin Sözü” was published, Samad was ecstatic. He couldn’t contain his joy and even wrote an article about it in Rahnama-ye Ketab ("Book Guide")—deliberately choosing that platform to throw the achievement in the faces of uptight intellectuals.
Not a moment passed when he was unaware of the delicate and beautiful language of his homeland. His pockets and briefcases were always filled with notes and notebooks. Anything he heard—from words to phrases, proverbs, and legends—he immediately wrote down. Eventually, he thought it best to start by publishing Azerbaijani folklore. The publication of Bayatilar by Farzaneh had filled him with zeal, and together with Behrouz Dehghani, they committed to the task. This conscious duo traveled through villages and towns, gathering multiple versions of each story or proverb—not to make replicas, but to find the most complete and flawless renditions.
Their first major output was The Folktales of Azerbaijan—a rich trove of beliefs and the vibrant imagination of the people. Then came a bigger issue: what should they do with these materials? No publisher was willing to print the stories in Turkish. And even if one was, with what resources, in what print house, and how would they distribute it to the people? After much struggle, Samad and Behrouz finally agreed to publish them in Persian. They were published—but Samad was far from satisfied. He repeatedly said and wrote: When will we be able to publish these stories in their original language?—a dream that still hasn’t come true.
Once, half-jokingly, he said: “Now that we’re bilingual and forced to translate our people’s tales into Persian, why don’t we translate the finest Persian poems of our time into Turkish?” That joke became a serious decision. He began translating works by Nima, Shamlu, Akhavan, Forough, and Azad. And here, Samad’s true talent emerged—not just as a skilled translator, but a full-fledged poet. His first translation of Nima stunned everyone: “Gece dur, bax, gece dur!” ("Get up at night, look, get up at night!").
His translation of Shamlu was the next sensation—capturing the music of Shamlu’s poetry in a fresh, untouched language. Everyone knew of Samad’s devotion to Nima and Shamlu and thought that constant interaction with their language helped. But what about the others? How could one immerse themselves in such varying poetic expressions without losing the tone, rhythm, content, or emotional texture? The delicate poetry of Forough? The somber verse of Azad? The powerful journeys of Akhavan?
As Behrouz Dehghani said, this wasn’t just experimentation—and he was right. It was at that point that everyone realized: this suppressed language has tremendous potential—don’t underestimate it!
Samad’s obsession with the Turkish language—part of the larger issue of national identity—never left him. One of his most significant projects stemmed from a simple but profound idea. His constant contact with rural life made him realize that terms like mailbox, dining table, or greeting card didn’t just not exist in village life—they didn’t even make sense. That was one insight. The second was that many shared words exist between Persian and Turkish. Based on these points, he began collecting such common words to create a book for Azerbaijani children—one that wouldn’t feel as heavy as the Persian books imposed by the capital, and couldn’t easily be criticized by authorities as promoting foreign influence. A very subtle point in the preparation of this book was that it allowed primary school children—especially in their early years—to gradually and comfortably learn Persian vocabulary.