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agree with DSW's first post.
so, this made me try to translate a poem about a freedom fighter, who is considered to be a terrorist. i did the worst i could have ever done, may the poet forgive me for crushing his masterpiece. just, this will be a good example; demonstrating how a simple man can become both a legend and a "terrorist".
My free words are echoing everywhere my voice reaches
And long, snowy winters are suffocating the once-restless chests
As my face that is sunburnt under the Altai sun, is being recorded in a photo
Roses drip from my wounds which are shouldering the heavens
I walk... My boundless realm is feeling tight inside me
O Turkestan! I walk, there's an inexplicable joy inside me
Claws of my eagles are pouring like steel arrowheads
And my tribe lost its patience, roars before the Russians and the Chinese
And till the dawn, warbles of all the birds
Utters the word of the god against the dark-religion with the same voice
Every single man of my homeland, in every single corner: "O God!
Do not let me be a miserable fugitive, take my life, o God!"
Of course, when the vintage comes, when my people feel the joy
Our hunters arise on the rocks like a thunder
And during the mid-day celebrations our souls are forged with fire
And a purified posterity grows from my tears
I swear to the day i inherited from seven ancestors
I swear to the day i heard the testament of my father
I kneel down before my mother as it's her milk created my culture
Then I arise and roar in the sacred groove as the hope smiles on me
My fight is the last "bread fight" of the century, to take off the veil that is laid upon the sun
When i grab them from my hair and share them with the soil
Many seeds my eyebrows water, my gloomy eyebrows
My eyebrows, nightmare of many foes, my grim eyebrows
A mist settles upon my ambush point, my hands turn white
I do choose the best way to die among legends of thousand years
As the chill shatters my ill-timed colours
I take refuge in my patience, in spite of eager trigger touching my finger
I am the one who has fallen, I am the one who has arisen, with my body full of bulletholes
With my body, a baby's body which lays shade upon mountains
O Turkestan, I walk, with your fire in my veins
I signed the reckless hatred with my blood
For the sake of only one seed of the bright future
I sacrificed thousands of men and women
Freedom is my faith, when doubts make me fall my sorrow will rise me
I belive! If my flag falls with me, my son and my daughter will rise it
In the wolf's den, this October, i am "unregistered" and thus brave
My almond eyes are the shield of my home and my wife
Each infamous whelp is holding another path, paths of our seasonal migrations
Yet my scarlet flag is the harvest of many raids i proudly survived
O, our torches gleam like blossoming flowers towards the foe
O, our wind-like horses swing their manes towards the foe
I rack my hands to the nest of the white hawk
Sorrowful wild flowers then suddenly blossom in my gray chest
As i dream for a normal bed, my tired patellas
Are stuck into the rocks like arrows
Oh my name, will be uttered a thousand times, my poor name, will spread throughout the homeland
O Turkestan! Witness, my name is called rebel in my own homeland
My head is intoxicated and joyful by the howl of the wolves
I watch the sunset like a grand mountain
Shatters the sky by pricking my eyes
Leaves and branches of a great and holy tree
I unfold my wings leaving the palaces behind
While thousands praise my name the fullmoon greets me
With the rage that i laid upon my prey
Which is the blessing of the God, in the brown hunting grounds
They now register my sins in their damned book, tyrants of the century
The yellow invasion is now chopping off my own ears and arms
I blossomed like a flower to the world and now all i get is a thorn from Mount Kamambal
Kamambal, to which i sacrificed myself, and now which abandoned me
Becomes a fire and melts my heart now
The torture and the tyranny of the whole history
I don't know which glimpse of light i am, in which remote place of a map
I don't know which beetle's fresh food i am
But I know, streets of Urumqi knows me from my odour
I am not dead! I am not dead! Do they think I am?
Written in memoriam Osman Batur, leader of the Turkic uprising against the Chinese took place during early 1950s, who was captured near mount Kamambal, whose ears, arms and legs were chopped off before they hanged him.
So, even mentioning his name is forbidden in East Turkestan, called Sinkiang by the Chinese, and he's considered to be a terrorist. And, in Turkey, especially among nationalists, he's a hero, and people like me have his pictures as icons, praising his name everyday.
_________________
"God is a comedian, playing to an audience too afraid to laugh."
Voltaire
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