By Firat Aydinkaya
April 13, 2025
Spivak once said that when my mother’s aunt committed suicide, she was 17 years old. She was a member of an anti-imperialist group and fought against colonization. She didn’t want to kill anyone, so she killed herself. But before taking her own life, she waited four days, wanting to menstruate first. If she had killed herself while not menstruating, society would have said she did it because of an illegitimate pregnancy, so she waited until she menstruated, then killed herself. In the end, the woman spoke not with her tongue but with her body. This tragic story became the foundation of her famous book “Can the Subaltern Speak?” (Gelo Bindest Dikare Biaxive?)
In his novel “I Will Kill Someone” (Ez ê Yekî Bikujim), Firat Cewerî pursues the tragedies of fighters and the remnants of revolutionary ideals. I personally am most interested in the aesthetics of defeated people in literature. Can we see sparks of revolutionary potential in the mourning of subjugated nations, in defeat, in tragedy?
Cewerî’s novel is a text of defeat, flowing from melancholy and tragedy. His male character speaks not with his tongue but with his knife; the female character, Diana, speaks with her body. At the novel’s end, knife and body become one, and the tragedy of the oppressed speaks through the language of self-violence. Below, we extensively discuss how the pain of Cewerî’s characters sometimes becomes Sartre’s Roquentin, dragging in the agonies of existence, and sometimes becomes Dostoevsky’s underground character, aggrieved at being excluded from the feast. But it never fully becomes Spivak’s subaltern. Why is that?
Psychology of Defeat
Psikolojîya Têkçûnê
Novelists often build their work on the atmosphere of a feeling. The feeling of this novel is the shattering of dreams—that is, tragedy. The novel’s characters have been crushed under the weight of their cause. They wanted to liberate their homeland, so they became revolutionaries and shouldered a heavy burden. But the path to freedom passes through prisons and the violence of colonizers. When a revolutionary enters prison for their cause and emerges fifteen years later, what kind of life awaits them? And likewise, when a woman joins the ranks of the liberation movement and then becomes a captive, falling into the hands of colonizers, what kind of life becomes her portion?
The answer seems simple—clearly, a life washed in trauma awaits them. Their lives have been turned upside down, and the glass of their hearts has been shattered across seven worlds. Melancholy, mourning, and pessimism have settled upon their spirits, leaving them breathless. But still, we know that when fighters enter prison or fall into the hands of colonizers, life and the cause of freedom don’t end; the struggle changes form and reconstitutes itself. From the history of the struggles of subjugated peoples and our own people, we know that prison serves as a political school, a place of learning and resistance.
When one examines the novel within this framework, a great emptiness presents itself. As the writer has shown, we know our protagonist spent fifteen years in prison for the liberation of the homeland and has been released. The novel opens with a nightmarish dream, and when he comes to his senses, a voice enters his ears: “You will kill someone today.” Why would a political prisoner, upon release from prison, want to commit murder? The writer also lets us know that there are shelves of books in the character’s room, and on his wall hangs Salvador Dalí’s melting clock poster. There’s even a characterization that he reads Kurdish books and follows Kurdish literature. Thus, this question is very important: why would a political prisoner, a semi-intellectual fighter, arbitrarily kill someone?
On the other hand, there is no general defeat in the novel; the cause of freedom continues. Only the two characters of the novel, when they struggle, fall into the hands of colonizers and get into trouble. In truth, tragedy doesn’t emerge from these troubles—it’s not possible. Because of these issues, there is a profound disproportion and a meaningless void between the novel’s events and the psychology of its characters.
The Tragedy of the Oppressed
Trajedîya Bindestan
The great master Xanî was not only a writer of passion and love but also our first writer of tragedy. Certainly, the great love of Mem and Zîn ends with a great tragedy. But he doesn’t just show us personal tragedy; the great master also shows us the tragedy of society and the Kurdish people. One could say that for the first time, the great Xanî politicized our Kurdish tragedy, making it the property of the pen. Through the symbolism of a love without outcome, he showed us that Kurds and their homeland are captive; sometimes he even puts symbolism aside and directly tells us that we remain breathless within a historical tragedy: “When Rome and the Tajik sea / When they assault and incite / Kurds become stained with blood.”
Thanks to the great Xanî’s politicization, we can say that tragedy has been established as a political institution for us Kurds from the beginning. Tragedy in ancient Greece was also defined in political terms and was connected to the psychology of citizenship in the polis. Aristotle even said that tragedy is sometimes therapy for society; when the psychology of civic weakness endangers the homeland, tragedy can become medicine and heal this weakness of feelings. On the other hand, in modern times, some writers say that tragedy has changed form and sometimes stands before us as a critique of modernity. I think this observation is important. If tragedy stands before us in the guise of criticism, then what kind of critique can tragedy mount for subjugated peoples? Can we connect tragedy with revolutionary potential?
Without doubt, tragedy is crisis. Certainly, tragedy is not only crisis; at the same time, it contains the answer and solution to the crisis. Fragments of tragedy can reveal severe oppression. If violence is the midwife of a new society, tragedy is the mercy of a new society.
On these foundations, let us return to the novel and ask what role tragedy plays for our heroes? The answer is hidden in the novel’s events. Not only in the violence-prone tendencies of the “prison-experienced” hero but also in Diana’s lack of will, we see that the novel’s answer is nihilism. Diana received organizational training in Europe, gained patriotic consciousness, and became a leading militant. When she becomes captive and falls into the hands of colonizers, her tongue completely fails, and her consciousness is nullified; she is always tested by her womanhood, not by her Kurdishness.
Both protagonists meet in their lack of will. One follows his knife, the other follows her pimp. The will of both is nullified; they follow their fate, becoming one in the garb of active nihilism. However, this lack of will and nihilism is not the garment of the oppressed on the path to freedom; it is the garment of the radicalism of the petty bourgeoisie.
When the novel’s characters are defeated, they not only lose their political consciousness but also lose meaning. Their faith in meaning disappears: politics is meaningless, time is meaningless, even existence is meaningless. The character released from prison wants to establish meaning in killing someone; for Diana, meaning is escape from the homeland—she wants to leave the homeland (hell) and go to Sweden; meaning for her is Sweden. Since everything is now meaningless, pain too is meaningless, suicide and murder too are meaningless. Thus, at a certain level, the consciousness of pain is nullified, and the terror of suffering begins; the novel becomes a lake of nihilistic tragedies. However, in tragedies, as we know, there is more or less reason, dignity, nobility, at least some value. But in the novel’s tragedies, there is neither reason, nor nobility, nor any value. Everything has been washed in meaninglessness; the fog of nihilism has darkened everything; both character and reader drown in the sea of nothingness. Sartre makes an important observation in one of his works, saying that “the business of the writer is solely meaning.” Well, when a work is written by nullifying meaning, what will be the role of a subaltern writer?
In his book on Tragedy, Eagleton discusses the function of Greek political tragedy and said that the role of tragedy was both to affirm societal/political institutions and to hold them accountable. Well, what is the role of tragedy in this novel and in our literature? What is the function of Kurdish tragedy? According to the novel, the function of Kurdish tragedy is this: nihilism, meaninglessness, abandonment of the homeland (escape to Sweden), knife-violence.
Comparison of Several Characters
Muqayeseya Çend Qerekteran
It is evident that this novel has been woven in connection with Sadegh Hedayat’s story “Three Drops of Blood” and Dostoevsky’s novels “Crime and Punishment” as well as “Notes from Underground.” The influence of Hedayat and Dostoevsky is very apparent. The writer has actually begun the novel with a passage from “Crime and Punishment,” has in several places saluted the underground heroes and his famous line “I was alone, and that was everyone,” and with two descriptions speaks of obsession and brings to mind the profile of Golyadkin from the novel “The Double,” and finally, in several places he mentions drops of blood (Hedayat). As we know, the book “Notes from Underground” begins with the word sickness, Hedayat’s story begins in a hospital, and our novel begins with the word sickness from “Crime and Punishment” and with a nightmarish dream. Well, what does the salutation of these heroes (works) tell us? What claim does the writer make on Dostoevsky’s characters?
It appears that the writer wanted to connect the defeat-tragedy of oppressed heroes with Dostoevsky’s heroes (and a bit with Hedayat’s) and wanted to weave a novel with the aura of these works. Well, can we see the pain and tragedies of Stavrogin, Golyadkin, Raskolnikov, the underground hero, and the anti-colonial heroes as one? On what basis can we compare the tragedies of anti-colonial heroes and those of Dostoevsky (Hedayat)?
As is known, Hedayat’s hero opens his eyes in a mental hospital, has been forgotten there, and when he sees paper and pen before him, without his volition, he writes only three drops of blood on the paper. On the other hand, Dostoevsky’s work “Underground” is, as we know, essentially a response—a response to Chernyshevsky’s novel. Chernyshevsky’s hero Rahmetov was a revolutionary, a new man who worked for equality and ideas of freedom. Through Rahmetov, the writer conveyed that when humans know themselves, can control their feelings, and also receive a good education, they can make the world a paradise. Dostoevsky completely rejected this and created the underground hero in response to Chernyshevsky. According to him, humans don’t act solely according to their reason; human will is not only related to knowledge and goodness; humans are, for him, egoists, and often their interests block their reason and will. That is, humans are created not only with emotion but also with feelings. Chernyshevsky’s characters were created with the lamp of enlightenment (Vera Pavlovna, Rahmetov), so they are rational, revolutionary, and romantic. But Dostoevsky’s characters are against these qualities; humans for him are not heroes, they are ordinary. His underground heroes are losers, crushed, burdens who are good neither for themselves nor for society. Although Raskolnikov is an idealist character before the crime, in the end, even he accepts his defeat and throws himself at the church’s feet. On the other hand, Stavrogin kills himself with the violence of defeat.
When one looks at Cewerî’s novel with this comparative eye, one sees that this novel, like Dostoevsky’s novel, is a response. Well, a response to whom? The addressee of the response is not directly clear from the novel. But most likely this novel is a response to the typology of the new people of the Kurdish movement, a critique of the idealization of the new society of the northern Kurdish movement, an annoyance with the Jacobinism of political Kurds. But still, Cewerî lets us know that people on the path to freedom are not demi-prophets, they are not without sin; however much they are on a path of light, within their veins are also the seeds of evil.
Cioran, in one of his works, spoke of humans and said that humans are a deep abyss. Indeed, all of Dostoevsky’s heroes and those of Hedayat walk on a deep abyss; when they look down, they get dizzy; when they look ahead, they stumble and fall. Likewise, Cewerî’s characters also walk on deep abysses in this way, just as in cartoon films where the abyss ends, the hero doesn’t notice and walks over a deep emptiness until someone warns them, saying “you’re walking on emptiness,” they don’t see it, and when they realize, they fall to the ground—Cewerî’s hero is also like this. But in Cewerî’s work, not only are the heroic characters problematic, but the place where the hero steps is also problematic. That is, the abyss too is problematic; often the abyss is constructed from nihilism, and when heroes step on this abyss, they slip, fall into it, and drown. As a small example: Raskolnikov’s role model was Napoleon; but Cewerî’s character’s role model is Nero, the Nero who burns Rome.
In summary, the novel’s heroes are walking corpses. However much it may be presented in an Orientalist manner, in the novel, only the writers who have come from Sweden represent life; thanks to these nameless writers, sun appears in the novel, like the sun of Stockholm, it shines but does not warm.
The Dark Room (Hotel)
Odeya Tarî (Otelê)
Can the sun of Stockholm illuminate the dark room (subjugated homeland)? Why does Diana throw herself at the feet of a male writer and say save me from hell (the homeland)? What will the imagery of the hotel room, the symbolism of the writer as savior, a wronged woman tell us?
When one sees the writer who has come from exile and Diana alone in the room, and for dozens of pages Diana tells her sorrows to the writer, inevitably Coetzee’s “Into the Dark Chamber” comes to mind. In his essay, Coetzee says the state itself has created the dark room of the novelist. The novelist stands at the doorway of the dark room; when oppression begins, either he averts his eyes, or he reveals this forbidden scene of oppression that no one is allowed to see. This dark room is the source of the novelist’s imagination; the novelist decorates scenes in this room and presents them to readers.
Diana is an oppressed girl; in the room, her tongue opens. In her childhood, she grew up without a father; later, her father’s friend molested her; at her father’s wish, she left the village and went to Europe; here she remained under the oppression of a conservative father; later, thanks to the party, she became a new person, joined the ranks of the movement, fought in the mountains, was captured, was molested by commanders, was molested by village guards who brought her and handed her over to the pimps of the city, was raped, was sold, and even upon coming to the room, she is a prostitute. That is, the hotel room in this way becomes Coetzee’s dark room and has become the source of Cewerî’s scenes.
The important thing is that Coetzee sees the sourcing of the dark room as problematic. When the dark room becomes the decor of the story for writers, according to Coetzee, there is something cheap and raw here. He even adds and says that the writer should distance himself from this victimhood created by the state. Coetzee asks: can literature become the voice of those whose voices have been cut off?
Cewerî answers in the hotel room: literature can put words in the mouths of victims (not the oppressed); the writer (the writers of the room) can save those who see oppression in the dark room, at least give the promise of hope of salvation, at least cast a saving glance.
In an article, Remezan Alan asks an important question: Where are the Kurds in (this) room? Alan in his article focuses more on the room of poetry, but we should also think about the room of the novel. In this novel, we see that the hotel room (novel) is the dwelling place of the writer’s hunt; the writer, thanks to this room, makes his hunt.
The Violence of the Oppressed
Şideta Bindestan
There is a path between masterhood and masochism; but there is also a path between slavery and masochism, and it is even shorter, says Girard. This observation is meaningful, but one word should be changed. Based on this novel, we can easily make such an observation: there is also a path between slavery and sadism, and in this novel, we see that there is even a shorter path. Why do fighters on the path to freedom (when defeated) put on the garment of sadism?
Dostoevsky, in his work “Demons,” creates a character like Shatov. According to Girard, the more Shatov wants to tear off the garment of revolutionary ideology, the more he moves toward masochism. In Shatov’s character, we feel that masochism has taken place in all forms of modern ideology. Thanks to this novel, we can say the same thing for sadism, and sadism also takes place in all forms of subaltern ideologies. And in times of crisis, it sticks its head out from under the jacket.
Well, what is the meaning of the knife under the jacket? Why is the knife always before our eyes? Fanon, in his famous book, had said that when he hears the word culture of the oppressed, his hand involuntarily goes to the knife. Is this knife the knife that Fanon speaks of? That is, is this knife an instrument of anti-colonialism?
One can say with confidence, no, this knife has no relation to the knife that Fanon speaks of. This knife is not anti-colonial violence; it doesn’t want to destroy, nor does it want to build; it only wants to become Azrael (the angel of death). Therefore, this knife is nihilistic violence, and the source of this violence is the radicalism of the petty bourgeoisie.
This knife resembles the violence of decapitators. The character is sick, irritated, disillusioned. In life, he seeks meaning in stabbing someone, so it is nihilistic violence. When he leaves prison, a great emptiness settles on the character’s spirit; he wants to make the emptiness of his life meaningful with the knife. The knife is meaning, the search for meaning. It is the complement of the character’s existence. What falling in love is for Sartre’s Roquentin, the knife is for our character.
On the other hand, this knife is an instrument of manhood. Characters released from prison possess two penises. One is in front under the pants, the other is in back under the jacket. The knife often reminds him of his lustful feelings; if the front penis doesn’t work, the back one will enter service. He wants to show his manhood to us and the novel’s girls with his knife. Killing and copulation exchange places, and the character wants to use both lustfully. Indeed, the relationship between the character and Diana proceeds on two foundations: the character is both after killing her and after copulating with her.
Well, what message does the writer want to give us at the end of the novel with the stabbing of Diana? This scene confirms Cioran’s statement in many ways. In one of his works, he had said, “The greatest tyrant emerges from the victims whose heads have not been cut off.” The writer’s room (hotel) becomes the chamber of a sacrifice; the writer completes his hunt with this killing, obtaining an original story for a new work. By stabbing Diana, the character medicates the pains of his existence, contemplates his existence, and obtains a new meaning. Meaning enters the novel with the final scene, with the stabbing of Diana. Why is meaning hidden in the stabbing of a submissive woman?
In conclusion, the writer lets us know that the violence of the oppressed doesn’t always pursue noble aims; sometimes the oppressed themselves become victims of their own violence, victims of the victims.
Diana: “Beat the Whore”
“Li Qehpikê Bixin”
Well, what is the meaning of the prostitution of a Kurdish militant woman? How does a patriotic and willful woman so easily become a prostitute? Why, in our literature, do Kurdish girls not become like Chernyshevsky’s Vera Pavlovna, Odysseus’s Penelope? Why not like Dostoevsky’s Lisa, the Jews’ Esther? And why, forever, do Kurdish girls not become like Halide Edip’s teacher Ali?
Can’t an oppressed woman become a prostitute? Of course she can. But the form, the weaving, the style, the aesthetics of the novel are very important here. An oppressed and struggling woman, of course, inevitably faces the violence of colonizers; of course, in this violence, there is also rape. But when an oppressed and struggling woman becomes the foundation of a subaltern novelist’s text with the theme of self-selling, the novelist must be a hundred times more careful in terms of form and construction. Most importantly, if the novelist weaves this rape from above in a way that shows the lack of will of a struggling woman, especially if he normalizes it from the values of everyday life, there is a big problem here.
Thanks to the resistance of Rojava (Kobanî), the whole world now knows that the struggle of Kurdish women is an inspiring struggle. When a woman from this movement is defeated, becomes captive, it is possible that because of the violence of the colonizers, she may look to her fate and become a confessor—that’s normal. She might even, in her confession, hand over her friends and comrades; because of her confessions, her comrades might also be killed—this too is normal. But in this stance, however much their will may be damaged, there is a will. The damaging of will is different from the absence of will. When we see Diana, from head to toe, a lack of will has entered her body; often she acts like a robot. But since Diana has become a fighter with a new consciousness, there should at least be several solid stages between her being a militant and her being a prostitute; at least she shouldn’t become without will after a few slaps; at least she shouldn’t become an ordinary prostitute after a few threats. Most importantly, even if forced prostitution is before her, her eyes should have been looking for escape in every scene; in every scene, she should have shown a resistance against this slavery. I don’t know why for male writers, the rape of women, prostitution, self-selling seems so easy?
Halide Edip, in her novel, in order to show the stains of slavery to her society, sends a teacher named Ali to Anatolia. She sends her character as a teacher among the people, sends her charged with the mission of saving the people. On the other hand, Cewerî also sends his character as a revolutionary to the homeland, sends her with the mission of the homeland’s freedom. Ali is the possessor of will, the possessor of a noble name; the writer is proud of her will. On the other hand, Diana is a nickname; when she becomes captive, her will melts away like August snow. Ali is not a prostitute; the slave-loving society gives her this name. Diana becomes captive, becomes a prostitute by the oppression of colonizers. When Ali faces threats and violence, she is self-confident, saying, “I will be light for your children, I will be their mother, I am not afraid of anything and will not bow down.” Even when the Greek commander and Anatolian society pressure her, Ali does not accept this oppression and says, “I will kill myself.” Doesn’t Diana become even as much as Ali?
The construction of Diana’s character certainly contains criticisms. The writer wants to criticize whom in the prostitution of a Kurdish woman? Whose fault is this? Why is the address of this sharp criticism anonymous?
As Conclusion: The Swedish School
Wekî Encam: Ekola Swêdê
What kind of influence has the Swedish school had on our literature? If this school had not existed, what would have been missing from our literature? Or what has this school added to our literature? Can we today criticize this literature, and on what basis can we criticize it?
One can say that the view of the writers of this school is generally possessive of a modern and enlightened perspective. They want to shine the light of Stockholm’s sun on the homeland. They weave their novels often not with philosophy but with sociological observation and criticism. But the problem perhaps is the escape from ideologies. Both Cewerî and Metê, in their interviews, show the cooling toward and escape from ideologies as a positive stance. Just one question: isn’t literature without ideology also an ideology?
Sweden is like their novel room. Often they behave like hunters, hunters of stories, hunters of biographies. When they look at the homeland, they see ruins; they are angered by the subjugation of the people; they want, like the writer in the novel, to buy a ticket, make the people their suitcase, and take them to Sweden to free them.
When they weave their novels, not everyone from the ruins of the homeland can become their hero. Not every subject becomes the story of their novel. Which story would draw the attention of Western literature, with what would the European reader be interested, they must find a story of this kind. Their character must be able to walk on the podium of European literature, so their agents, however much they may be oppressed, act and think in petty bourgeois forms.
In their works and characters, there is a hidden restlessness and anger. In truth, the majority of postcolonial writers are already restless and aggressive. Often, there is a great emptiness between the thoughts and intellectuality of these writers and those of their oppressed people, and this emptiness takes the writers’ minds. The writers want to become the Moses of their people with the light of literature, but according to them, their people follow a golden calf. This difference sabotages the consciousness and weaving of these writers. Indeed, Spivak said sabotage is not debate; it is the criticism of disappointment.
This disappointment becomes more evident in the representation of women. As examples, Mehmet Uzun’s Kevok, Hesenê Metê’s Nêrgiz, and also Diana from this novel. In these representations, Kurdish women become the lovers of their torturers, become the servants of their teachers, become the prostitutes of their colonizers. For what? Why is the Swedish school so angry toward Kurdish women?
According to an anecdote, during the days of the March Revolution (1848), Balzac turned his back on political revolutions, sat at a table, and said, “Enough now, let’s return to truth.” The style of this novel and the style of the Swedish school somewhat resemble this stance of Balzac. Revolution is not important, ideology is not a concern, resistance is good if it exists, but the truth of the writer is above everything. Well, what is the truth of these writers?
The escape from politics, the asylum of literature—this is the truth. Cewerî, in his interview, values literature against politics. According to him, politics extinguishes the fire of philosophy and literature. He even says some very interesting things: “In literature, there is democracy; in literature, there is no war; in literature, there is humanity, humanism, and peace.” Against literature stands politics, and in politics, there is conspiracy, enmity, war, and deception. One could say many things about these observations, of course. But I only want to say this: it has not yet been seen on the face of the earth that literature has saved a subjugated nation. Certainly, there should be an absolute and perfect distance between literature and politics. Certainly, engaged literature is not the medicine of the oppressed. Certainly, criticism of politics is obligatory, but belittling the institution of politics and rejecting the politics of the oppressed is problematic. Literature is many things, perhaps everything, but it is not the staff of Moses.
In conclusion, a Dostoevskian character can no longer contain himself, rebels, and says in a loud voice, “Isn’t it enough already, this underground psychology?” Indeed, this psychology is not only Velchaninov’s. The reader of this novel and of this article is justified in saying, “Isn’t it enough already, this nihilistic psychology,” “Isn’t it enough already, this long and distant criticism!”
References
[1] Gayatri C. Spivak, Can the Subaltern Speak? (Madun Konuşabilir Mi?)
[2] Fırat Cewerî, I Will Kill Someone (Ez ê Yekî Bikujim), p. 16, Avesta
[3] Ehmedê Xanî, Mem and Zîn (Mem û Zîn), Avesta
[4] See Terry Eagleton, Tragedy (Trajedi), p. 16, Can Sanat
[5] Jean-Paul Sartre, What is Literature? (Edebiyat Nedir), p.19, Can
[6] Terry Eagleton, Tragedy (Trajedi), p. 15, Can Sanat
[7] Sadegh Hedayat, Three Drops of Blood (Üç Damla Kan), YKY
[8] F. Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment (Suç ve Ceza), İş Bankası
[9] Dostoevsky, Notes from Underground (Yeraltından Notlar), Remzi Kitapevi
[10] Cewerî, p.13
[11] Cewerî, p. 48, Dostoevsky, Notes from Underground (Yeraltından Notlar), Remzi Kitapevi
[12] Cewerî, p. 35, 55, Dostoevsky, The Double (Öteki), İş Bankası
[13] Hedayat, same work, p. 9
[14] Emil Cioran, The Eternal Defeated (Ezeli Mağlup), Metis
[15] J.M. Coetzee, https://kurdarastirmalari.com/yazi-detay-oku-108
[16] Nurdan Gürbilek, The Share of the Silent (Sessizin Payı), p.114, Metis
[17] See Remezan Alan, Bendname, p. 249, Peywend
[18] René Girard, Deceit, Desire, and the Novel (Romantik Yalan ve Romansal Hakikat), p. 149, Metis
[19] F. Dostoevsky, Demons (Ecciniler), İş Bankası
[20] Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (Yeryüzünün Lanetlileri), Sosyalist
[21] Sartre, Nausea (Bulantı), Can
[22] Emil Cioran, The Book of Delusions (Çürümenin Kitabı), p.7-10, Metis
[23] Halide Edip Adıvar, Strike the Whore (Vurun Kahpeye), p. 35 etc., Can
[24] In this school, of course, there are many of our productive writers. This observation has been made more for the works of Mehmet Uzun, Hesenê Metê, and Firat Cewerî. All three of these writers are productive and successful; their labor for our literature is very great. Before criticisms, we must acknowledge their rights.
[25] For Cewerî’s interview, see: https://philosophiakurdi.de/hevpeyvin-bi-firat-ceweri-ra/ and for Metê’s interview, see: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tGcKw5c4LEM
[26] Gayatri C. Spivak, Deconstruction, Postcolonialism, Subalternity (Yapısöküm, Postkolonyalizm, Madunluk), p.35, Hayalci Hücre
[27] Theodor Adorno, Literary Writings (Edebiyat Yazıları), p. 53, Metis
[28] See Interview with Firat Cewerî, https://philosophiakurdi.de/hevpeyvin-bi-firat-ceweri-ra/
[29] Dostoevsky, The Eternal Husband (Ebedi Koca), İmge
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