The Yezidi culture relies heavily on an oral tradition. Stories around the genocide and past events spread rapidly and are passed down from generation to generation. Poems, songs and story are also used to process trauma and to manifest their own history. The young Yezidi poets Emad Bashar, Saad Shivan and Sarmad Saleem continue the tradition of oral history through contemporary poetry which often deals with the genocide of 2014 and its aftermath. A selection of their poems is on show made visible with the help of an augmented reality and the app artivive.
The clock indicates 1:00am I am displaced Saad, my life seems meaningless in the land of Islam I am from a miserable minority You look for an identity like a burning house I am a failed son of a sick mother A dead father, my mother carriers sweaty years of displacement like a laundry line In spite of the many summers, it did not dry I hate this continuous comedy ... I am from a miserable minority, it’s called Yazidi, We have many holidays and our believers do not wash on Wednesday, No oil wells in Shingal where we were living, but I assure you, we are rich in mass graves Saad Shivan
لساعة تشير الى 1:00صباحا انا نازح سعد ،على ما يبدو حياتي ل معنى لها في بلد السلم انا من اقلية بائسة، تبحث عن هوية مثل منزل محترق و انا ابن فاشل لم مريضة وأب ميت تحمل أمي عرق سنوات النزوح مثل حبل الغسيل رغم اصياف كثيرة لم يجف اكره هذه الكوميدية المتواصلة ... انا من اقلية بائسة، تدعى اليزيديين لنا اعياد كثيرة والمؤمن منا ل يغتسل في الربعاء لا آبار النفط في شنكال حيث كنا نسكن ولكن اؤكد لكم اننا اغنياء بمقابر الجماعية
Shingal was besieged My mother entered the kitchen There wasn’t food She stayed long hours Then she came out to us with a lot of warm tears So whenever I see a child hungry in the camp I cry Sarmad Saleem
كانت شنكال محاصرة دخلت أمي إلى المطبخ لم يكن هناك طعام بقيت ساعات طويلة ثم خرجت إلينا بالكثير من الدموع الحارة جدا ولهذا كلما رأيت في المخيم طفلا جائعا أبكي
For Shingal, which is a afraid of darkness March sun, Prayers of my father, And Sherfadeen. For Shingal, that hungry country My mother’s bread, And the bosom of my love. For that thirsty land God opens his button eyes And cries profusely Sarmad Saleem
لشنكال التي تخاف من الظلام ،شمس آذار ،وصلوات أبي ،وشرفدين لشنكال، تلك البلاد الجائعة ،خبز أمي ،وقلبي ونهدا حبيبتي لتلك الأرض العطشى يفتح الله أزرار عينيه ويبكي بغزارة
Shingal was besieged My mother entered the kitchen There wasn’t food She stayed long hours Then she came out to us with a lot of warm tears So whenever I see a child hungry in the camp I cry * So many years ago A girl very much like you Was screaming in my head: I want to leave To be saved On the day the war reached Shingal She beat me on the head with her crutch And the corpse of a lover came out, with no mouth for her * For Shingal, which is a afraid of darkness March sun, Prayers of my father, And Sherfadeen. For Shingal, that hungry country My mother’s bread, And the bosom of my love. For that thirsty land God opens his button eyes And cries profusely
I know a child who paints with cruelty For example, yesterday he drew the map of Iraq On the map, Shingal mountain On the mountain, trees On the trees, he painted birds without wings He told me: I don’t want them to fly to strange countries Sarmad Saleem
The Missing Names You did not reveal your name despite the long talk about trivial things It was like hiding a corpse from sight You didn’t talk about jihad in Islam Or the times of the five prayers Which you were doing in the caliphate’s military camps Your daughter, O Adlan, did not do that What would we say if you were here What if you survived the war, as my sister who recently married did You may also have married or maybe be a student at the nursing institute Instead of memorizing Surat al-Fatiha and Surat al-Nisa in the mosques of “Daesh” You will live a good life worth of you, o darling The pants you were wearing three years in a row and you in the faculty of agriculture Your father once talked about how poor you were then years after that you became a teacher of religion I remember that I was a student in your class You talked to us about Yazidi prayers and their “communities” And the history of the holiday Garmsha Seri Sale And about a lot of other things, O Ibrahim Without a doubt they have made you a preacher in the minarets now You memorize the Quran from heart That’s what they are doing to you because you are Yazidi A Yazidi, Ibrahim Saad Shivan
اسماء مفقودة لم تكشف عن اسمك رغم الحديث الطويل عن اشياء تافهة كان ذلك يشبه إخفاء جثة عن النظر لم تتحدث عن الجهاد في ا سلم او مواعيد الصلوات الخمسة التي تقومين بها في معسكرات الخلفة ابنتك يا "عدلن "لم تفعل ذلك كنا نقول ماذا لو كنت هنا ماذا لو نجوت من الحرب كما فعلت اختي التي تزوجت مؤخرا كنت قد تزوجت ايضا او ربما كنت طالبة في معهد تمريض "بدل من حفظ سورة الفاتحة و سورة النساء في مساجد "داعش" كنت ستعيشين حياة ل بأس بها حياة تستحقينها يا "عزيزة البنطال الذي كنت تلبسه ثلث سنوات متتالية وانت في كلية الزراعة اباك مرة تحدث كيف كنتم فقراء جدا حينذاك بعد ذلك بسنوات اصبحت استاذ في مادة الدين اتذكر انني كنت طالبا في صفك " تتحدث لنا عن صلوات اليزيديين عن "جماياتهم "وتاريخ العيد "جارشما سري سالي "وعن اشياء كثيرة اخرى يا "ابراهيم بل شك جعلوا منك خطيبا في المآذن الن تحفظ القرأن على ظهر القلب هذا ما يفعلونه لنك كنت ايزيديا "ايزيديا يا "ابراهيم
Sinjar, my soul 