Four Newroz Letters

By Omer Faruk Baran
March 26, 2025

Ferec Koyistani’s Letter and the Newroz Gelabi

“The world is small,” they say. Therefore, one shouldn’t be too surprised by many things.

In spring 2023, I reached out to one of my father’s acquaintances through social media, who now teaches at Rojava University.

Following him on Facebook wasn’t enough. I called him via WhatsApp.

He spoke about his brother, who was my father’s contemporary and, like many children from Amuda, perished in the cinema fire in the fall of 1960.

He continued: “During the Turkish Hat Law period, your grandfather once wore his traditional gelabi and was sitting at home. They raided his house and slashed his gelabi with daggers, tearing it to pieces.”

Afterward—perhaps mockingly—he imitated my grandfather, whose voice I had never heard. He added: “Just don’t hit my stomach!”

I became upset, distressed, and angered by this memory. I don’t recall exactly what I said afterward or how the call ended. However, I did tell those around me about it, perhaps both to ease my mind and to add this memory to our collective anger against them.

Around that same time, my father was coming to Diyarbakir from the village for some government business. Although he had initially gone to Istanbul, he hadn’t succeeded. As we were gradually meeting in Diyarbakir, he was catching his breath.

Photo: Ferec Koyistani at Diyarbakir’s Newroz, 2023

Newroz was approaching. I remembered that when my father went on Hajj, he had bought himself a khaki gelabi. A day before his arrival in Diyarbakir, I asked him to bring his gelabi for me.

Under normal circumstances, he might have been puzzled by my request and not brought it, but because he and the state were distancing themselves from each other, he didn’t reject my request and brought his gelabi.

It wasn’t a grand act of revenge, but it was all I could do.

On the dawn of Newroz 2023, like many elegant young men, I didn’t wear traditional şal û şapik (Kurdish traditional clothing), but I wore a gelabi and went to the celebration grounds; I was convinced that by wearing a gelabi and raising it in their faces, my grandfather’s spirit would find more peace in his grave.

Ferec Koyistani

Guhdar MW.’s Letter and the Newroz Döners

In the early 2000s, I was a child. My father would wake up early on Newroz day and take our entire family to Urfa.

As soon as we entered the Newroz grounds, my father would say, “Raise your fingers, raise your fingers!”

I would raise my victory fingers and walk around like that until the end of Newroz. But inside, I would think, “I raised them, here you go, okay, long live Newroz…” I would say it with frustration.

People were watching the stage, but I was looking at the side of the stage because there were stands selling liver and döners; I was a child, hungry, and didn’t even know what Newroz was.

One part hungry and two parts full, I grew up and went to Bartın University; I went to Istanbul’s Newroz celebration with friends.

Then my father saw me on Stêrk TV: Flag and banner in hand, I was raised on my friends’ shoulders.

My father called. He said, “Hello, Comrade Son!” I said, “Hello, Comrade Father…”

When he called me “Comrade Son,” I knew his words were meaningful, that he wanted to say something.

Photo: Guhdar MW. at Istanbul’s Newroz

He said, “You’ve become famous, appearing on television… We supposedly sent you to Bartın to study, what are you doing wandering around Istanbul?”

I replied sheepishly, “Some friends and I came to explore Istanbul, father, and then we thought we’d also go to Newroz…”

He knew, of course, that we had gone to Istanbul solely for Newroz.

He said, “Are you trying to burn your head?! What are you doing there, my son?! Your brother is already in prison, are you also trying to get arrested?!” My father was upset.

Calmly, I said, “Father, do you remember? You used to take us to Urfa’s Newroz, forcing us to raise our fingers with empty stomachs until evening. Now I’ve come to Newroz willingly and with a full stomach – I had eaten döner – don’t be upset.”

Comrade Father laughed, thought for a moment, and said: “You’re right, okay my son, take care of yourself,” and we said goodbye.

From that day to this, whenever I go to Newroz to raise my fingers, I first fill my stomach.

Long live Newroz, but with a full stomach, long live Newroz.

Guhdar MW.

Guhdar N.’s Letter and the Newroz School

We were in middle school. We weren’t little kids anymore, but we weren’t yet grown-ups either. But we knew all too well that on Newroz day, the school would become our prison.

We had even heard that Kawa would come to Newroz, and our most sacred and meaningful day was made even more prison-like by the school’s imprisonment.

All our classmates wanted to go to Newroz, so we skipped class.

First, the boys in our class climbed over the school fence. Then it was the girls’ turn. We girls were afraid.

All our friends had climbed over, some tearing their shirts and some their pants on the barbed wire.

Image: Guhdar N. escaping from school

I was the last one, and I said, “Oh God!” and climbed over. They said those who went to Newroz would receive disciplinary punishment, but after we crossed the fence and escaped our prison, we no longer cared.

We took out our green, red, and yellow items from our bags and went to the Newroz grounds.

Kawa was on stage, in front of us, saying, “Light the sacred fire,” and Newroz became our cause.

I felt very happy: Newroz was being celebrated with the commitment of middle school boys and girls.

Guhdar N.

Serdar Laçin’s Letter and the Newroz Business

It was a Newroz in the early 2000s in Diyarbakir; the bans on Newroz celebrations were just being lifted in those years.

We were three children—me, Serdar, and my two friends Şiyar and Rêzan—and in that unrestricted Newroz, we wanted to separate from our elders and wander around on our own.

And that’s what we did. We entered the crowd, explored, and didn’t return to our elders.

But after a while, we realized we were hungry and didn’t have a penny in our pockets.

Photo: Serdar Laçin’s childhood

What should we do? We looked around and saw empty plastic bottles on the ground and a water tanker nearby.

We collected the bottles, filled them with water from the tanker, and started selling them.

Şiyar would say in Turkish, “Brother, come get water,” Rêzan would say in Kurmanji, “Come get water, come get water,” and I would collect the money in both Kurdish and Turkish.

Some people would pay the exact price for the water, while others would give us extra. No one asked if the bottle cap was open or not; they just took the water and finished it in one gulp.

In the end, we sold a lot of water, filled our stomachs, and even had some money left over.

The next year, we went to Newroz with the same business idea, but we didn’t do it.

Because by then, everyone was selling water, and the bottle caps were even sealed.

Serdar Laçin

Ji ber krîza aborî ti xebatkarên daîmî yên Botan Timesê nînin. Murat Bayram bi dildarî weşanê didomîne. Heger hûn bixwazin em li ser pêyan bimînin piştgirîya me bikin. Ji bo piştgirîyê bibin abone. Ji 200 hezar xwendevanên me û 5 hezar şopînerên qenala me ya YouTubeyê li ser hev 500 kes bibin abone em dikarin li ser pêyan bimînin.