A History of Persian Literature Volume XVIII - Oral Literature of Iranian Languages
A History of Persian Literature Volume XVIII - Oral Literature of Iranian Languages
Volume XVIII
Volumes of A History of Persian Literature
Volume XVIII
Edited by
Philip G. Kreyenbroek & Ulrich Marzolph
Sponsored by
Persian Heritage Foundation (New York)
&
Center for Iranian Studies, Columbia University
Published in 2010 by I.â•›B.Tauris & Co Ltd
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A History of Persian Literature
Editorial Board
Mohsen Ashtiany
J.╛T.╛P. de Bruijn (Vice-�Chairman)
Dick Davis
William Hanaway, Jr.
Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak
Franklin Lewis
Wilferd Madelung
Heshmat Moayyad
Ehsan Yarshater (Chairman)
Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xv
Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxi
preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxvii
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viii
Contents
Music . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
Transmitters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
On the discovery of the sacred texts. . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
4. Questions of orality and literacy in connection with the poems 86
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x
Contents
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xii
Contents
Bibliographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323
The study of popular literature in the Persian context . . . . . 323
Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324
Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 327
Kurdish periodicals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 327
Primary literature: texts and translations . . . . . . . . . . 328
Secondary literature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 335
Chapter 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339
Chapter 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343
Chapter 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346
Chapter 7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 350
Chapter 8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 351
Select bibliography on the Nart Epic . . . . . . . . . . . . 352
Ossetic texts referred to . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352
Secondary literature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352
Chapter 9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352
Chapter 10. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365
Chapter 11 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 370
Chapter 12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371
Chapter 13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 376
xiii
Contributors
xv
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xvi
Contributors
xvii
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xviii
Contributors
xix
Foreword
In the 1990s I gradually became convinced that the time had come
for a new, comprehensive, and detailed history of Persian literature,
given its stature and significance as the single most important ac-
complishment of the Iranian peoples. Hermann Ethé’s pioneering
survey of the subject, “Neupersische Litteratur” in Grundriss der
iranischen Philologie II, was published in 1904 and E.â•›G. Browne’s
far more extensive A Literary History of Persia, with ample dis-
cussion of the political and cultural background of each period,
appeared in four successive volumes between 1902 and 1924. The
English translation of Jan Rypka’s History of Iranian Literature,
written in collaboration with a number of other scholars, came out
in 1968 under his own supervision.
Iranian scholars have also made a number of significant contri-
butions throughout the 20th century to different aspects of Persian
literary history. These include B. Foruzânfar’s Sokhan va sokhanÂ�
varân (On poetry and poets, 1929–33), M.-T. Bahâr’s Sabk-Â�shenâsi
(Varieties of style in prose) in three volumes (1942) and a number
of monographs on individual poets and writers. The truly monu-
mental achievement of the century in this context was Dh. Safâ’s
wide-ranging and meticulously researched Târikh-e Â�adabiyyât dar
Irân (History of Literature in Iran) in five volumes and eight parts
(1953–79). It studies Persian poetry and prose in the context of their
political, social, religious, and cultural background, from the rise
of Islam to almost the middle of the 18th century.
Nevertheless, it cannot be said that Persian literature has re-
ceived the attention it merits, bearing in mind that it has been
the jewel in the crown of Persian culture in its widest sense and
the standard bearer for aesthetic and cultural norms of the litera-
ture of the eastern regions of the Islamic world from about the
12th century; and that it has profoundly influenced the literatures
xxi
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xxii
Foreword
xxiii
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xxiv
Foreword
Ehsan Yarshater
General Editor
xxv
preface
xxvii
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xxviii
preface
xxix
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xxx
preface
xxxi
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xxxii
preface
xxxiii
Oral Literature of Iranian Languages
Philip G. Kreyenbroek
Editor
xxxiv
The Study of Popular Literature
in the Persian Context
xxxv
Oral Literature of Iranian Languages
xxxvi
Popular Literature in the Persian Context
xxxvii
Oral Literature of Iranian Languages
xxxviii
Popular Literature in the Persian Context
xxxix
Oral Literature of Iranian Languages
xl
Popular Literature in the Persian Context
xli
Oral Literature of Iranian Languages
xlii
Popular Literature in the Persian Context
xliii
Oral Literature of Iranian Languages
xliv
Popular Literature in the Persian Context
xlv
Oral Literature of Iranian Languages
Ulrich Marzolph
xlvi
Chapter 1
Joyce Blau
1. Introduction
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dialects. They have never been unified and standardized, and the
degree of difference among them is in proportion to geographical
distance separating them throughout a large and mountainous ter-
ritory that has never been politically unified. The dialects of the
northern group, generally called Kurmanji (or Badinani in Iraq)
are spoken by the largest number, including the Kurds of Turkey,
Syria, and the former USSR, and by some Iraqi and Iranian Kurds.
The central group includes the dialects of northeast Iraq called
Sorani, as well as the neighboring dialects of Iranian Kurdistan
called Mokri, Kordi or Sene’i. The southern group includes the
heterogeneous dialects of the Iranian provinces of Ilâm, Kermân-
shâh and Lorestân (MacKenzie 1961–62; Blau 1989).
While it is true that illiteracy was widespread in Kurdistan un-
til the 1950s, there has always been a small, cultivated intellectual
elite. This was noted by Prince Sharaf Khan Bedlisi (1543–1604) in
his Sharaf-nâme (Adivar, Véliaminov-Zernof, Charmoy, Vasilieva)
and by the traveler Evliya Chelebi (Sakisian 1957; cf. van Bruines-
sen and Boeschoten 1988). This educated elite wrote in Persian and
Arabic (the dominant languages of the region). Thus, as early as the
thirteenth century, Ebn al-Athir (d. 1233),1 a historian and biog-
rapher of Kurdish origin, wrote al-Kâmel (the work which made
him famous) in Arabic. Ebn-e Khallekân (d. 1282)2 and Abu’l-Fedâ
(d. 1331)3 also wrote in Arabic. The high-ranking Ottoman digni-
tary Edris Hakem Betlisi (d. 1520), wrote the Hasht Behesht (The
Eight Paradises), which recounted the lives of the first eight Otto-
man Sultans, in Persian. Likewise, Sharaf Khan Bedlisi wrote the
Sharaf-nâme in Persian.
This phenomenon still continues. For example, Ahmad Showqi
(1868–1932) earned the title of “prince of poets” because he epito-
mized the Arab poets of his time. Boland al-Heydari (1926–96),
along with three other talented poets, created an Iraqi school of lit-
erature well known for its creativity, which had a decisive influence
on the entire Arabic literary movement. Salim Barakat (b. 1951),
1 Ebn al-Athir was born in Jazirat Ebn Umar and has the nisba of al-Jazari.
2 Ebn-e Khallekân al-Arbili was born in Irbil.
3 Abu’l-Fedâ was an Ayyubid Prince, a dynasty of Kurdish origin.
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Written Kurdish Literature
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4 In the first part of this text all Kurdish names and titles are transliterated
according to the system generally used for the Arabic alphabet; where nec-
essary the equivalent in the “Hawar” alphabet, a Roman script which is
now widely used for Kurmanji Kurdish, is given in brackets. In the part of
the text which deals with the period when alphabets other than the Arabic
came to be used for Kurdish, the transcription used is based on the “Hawar”
orthography, occasionally with the “Arabic” equivalent in brackets.
4
Written Kurdish Literature
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6
Written Kurdish Literature
Gurani literature
At about the same time, in the far south of Kurdistan, one of the
most brilliant members of the Kurdish Ardalân dynasty,5 Halo
Khan (1585–1616), reached an agreement with Shah Abbâs at Is-
fahan. In exchange for paying tribute and defending the Empire’s
western frontiers, the Kurds were granted peace and a measure of
independence. Halo Khan and his successor, Khan Ahmad, rebuilt
towns and patronized men of letters and poets who composed their
work in Arabic, Persian, and above all in Gurâni, a language which
was much more widespread then than it is today.6 It was amongst
the Gurân and the people of Hawromân (who speak a form of
Gurâni) that the esoteric faith of the Ahl-e Haqq was born, a faith
that was to gain a considerable following in later years (see Chap-
ter 3 in this Volume). Gurâni became the most important language
in the classical textual tradition of the Ahl-e Haqq. The Ardalân
princes, who may secretly have adopted this faith, favored Gurâni,
which became the language of their court. Gurâni literature was
promoted, and Gurâni became the common literary language in
southern Kurdistan, and at the courts of the Bâbân and Sorân dy-
nasties, which were settled on the western slopes of the Zagros.
Gurâni developed its own lyrical, epic and religious poetry
(MacKenzie 1965; Mokri 1956), using a ten-syllable meter in rhym-
ing couplets with a caesura between the two hemistiches. This form
7
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8
Written Kurdish Literature
9 The word derives from the name of the Sorân/Sohrân (red) dynasties that
dominated the region around Hewlêr/Erbil.
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10
Written Kurdish Literature
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Written Kurdish Literature
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Written Kurdish Literature
around the paper were influenced by new European ideas and cul-
ture. For example, they published a condemnation of the massacre
of Armenians in 1894–96. The publishers’ stand against the régime
in Istanbul forced them to move the paper’s office to Geneva, then to
London and Folkestone, and then back to Geneva again, where the
last issue (no. 31, April 1902) was published. In Istanbul, the month-
ly Rôji kord (Kurdish Day) became Hatâwi kord (Kurdish Sun) in
1913. In 1916, Sorayâ Badr Khan published the Turkish-language
weekly Jin (Life), which proclaimed “Kurdistan for the Kurds.” He
also published the weekly Kordestân in 1917–18 (37 issues).
World War I and its aftermath altered the Kurds’ situation. Af-
ter the division of Kurdistan between the Ottoman and Persian
empires came the division of the Kurdish territory among Turkey,
Iran, Iraq, Syria, and the regions of the Soviet Caucasus. The fate
of the Kurds and the development of their language and literature
came to depend on the degree of freedom they were granted by the
central governments.
In Armenia, 1921–89
15
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16
Written Kurdish Literature
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In Turkey, 1923–57
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Written Kurdish Literature
However, after World War II, when Syria became independent, the
Kurds lost their freedom and the writers again went into exile.
In Iraq, 1919–57
When, after World War I, the British decided to annex the Kurd-
ish Vilayat (province) of Mosul to the new Arab state of Iraq, their
first act was to dismiss the Turkish officials and replace them with
Kurds, “assisted” by British advisers. The Kurdish language was
introduced to replace Turkish in official matters and Persian in
personal correspondence. The first Kurdish printing press was es-
tablished in 1919 by Major Ely B. Soane (d. 1923) in the town of
Suleimâni. The development of Kurdish printing promoted Sorani
Kurdish, which writers and poets renewed and perfected. This dia-
lect thus showed its potential as a modern literary language.
Having become citizens of an Arab state, the Kurds were obliged
to adopt the Arabic alphabet, although technically this script was
ill suited to transcribe Kurdish. Literary output developed in the
late 1920s in Suleimâni, Hewlêr/Erbil and Baghdad. Contact with
the West, and translations of Byron, Shelley, Lamartine, Maupas-
sant, Schiller, Goethe and Pushkin, brought the Kurds out of their
isolation and profoundly changed the character of their poetry.
Exposure to modernism drew poetry away from its traditional
paths. Although poems initially retained their classical form, their
contents showed many innovative elements, such as expressions of
love, despair and anger; traditional poetry was enriched by refer-
ences to the author’s inner world. Characteristic of this new ten-
dency was the poem Min û estêrekan (The Stars and I) by Piramêrd
(Old Man), the pen name of Hajî Tewfîq (Hâji Towfiq, 1867–1950).
However, realistic, patriotic and social themes predominated and
reflected current events. The poet sang of the love of their country
and the glory of freedom. A characteristic example of this new ten-
dency was the poetry of Ehmed Muxtar Jaf (1897–1935), whose po-
etic output oscillated between romanticism and social themes, and
of Hemdî Fettah Beg Sahibqiran (Sâhebqerân, 1878–1936), who
defended the common struggle of the Kurdish and Arab people,
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as did Ebd el-Wehîd Nûrî (1903–46) and the witty Zewar (Ebdel-
lah Muhammad, 1875–1948). The “kurdification” of the language,
stripping it of loan words and forms from the dominant languages
(Arabic, Persian, and Turkish), can be credited to the writers of this
period.
Later, whilst many new genres were adopted—such as the lyric-
epic drama—which allowed the struggles of the Kurds to be pre-
sented in a more vivid and dramatic way, the structure of classical
poetry broke down. The 1930s saw the appearance of syllabic verse,
which was close to the oral tradition, and of prose poems and free
verse. Shaikh Nûrî Shaikh Salih (1897–1958) was the first to break
with tradition. He was quickly followed by the great Goran (Ebdel-
lah Suleiman, 1904–62), who abandoned Arabo-Persian metrics
(aruz), with their quantitative rhythm and single rhyme, for a syl-
labic rhythm and multiple rhymes, close to folk poetry and songs.
His many travels gave him a deep knowledge of Kurdish society,
which is evoked in his work by means of original imagery. The ma-
jority of his poems, which sound like revolutionary anthems, have
been set to music. His political ideas earned him several prison sen-
tences, which permanently damaged his health (Kerîm 1980). Ey
Reqîb (O Enemy) by Dildar (Yûnis Malâ Re’ûf, 1918–48) became
the National Anthem of the Autonomous Republic of Kurdistan
(1946), and was subsequently adopted by all Kurdish nationalists.
Poetry continued to flourish in Iraqi Kurdistan; important
contemporary poets further include the musically disposed
Ehmed Herdî (b. 1922), whose poetry is imbued with sadness;
Salim (Shaikh Salim Shaikh Ehmed Ezebanî, 1892–1959; Dilzar
(Ehmed Mistefa Heme Agha Hewezî, b. 1920), who wrote his
most beautiful poems in prison; Bêkes (Feqî Ebdellah, 1905–48),
whose son Shêrko (b. 1940) has become the figurehead of the new
generation of poets; Kamiran Mukrî (1929–89); Kakey Fellah (b.
1928) and Muhammad Huseyn Berzincî, who used the pen name
“Eyn Ha Ba.”
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Written Kurdish Literature
Prose Literature
In Iran, 1912–79
21
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22
Written Kurdish Literature
23
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Iraq. The following is only a brief selection of the many works that
appeared during that period.
After much wandering, the Kurdish poets Hejar and Hemin
(see above) sought refuge in Iraq, where they could at last publish
their work. The same was true of Hesen Qizilcî (1914–85), a gifted
novelist with an acute sense of observation. Poets and writers pub-
lished their work in the twenty-nine periodicals that appeared in
this period (of which two were based in Kirkuk, six in Hewlêr/
Erbil, and four in Suleimâni). Baghdad became the most important
Kurdish cultural center. A Kurdish Academy of Science was created
in 1970, and the first issue of Govarî korî zanyarî kurd (Journal of
the Kurdish Academy of Science) appeared in 1973. This 800-page
bilingual (Arabic/Kurdish) volume was edited by Ihsan Shîrzad,
Minister for Regional Government. An interesting phenomenon
emerged, which was to be repeated in other circumstances: intel-
lectuals from various parts of Iraq, who until then had been fairly
well integrated into Arab intellectual life, began to become “Kurd-
icized.” Journalists, historians, linguists, scientists and engineers
started to write in Kurdish.
The emerging literary output suffered the repercussions of the
breakdown in negotiations between the Kurds and Saddam Hus-
sein, who had come to power in Iraq, and then from the two Gulf
wars. Poets and writers had little chance of publishing their work
on the small portable printing presses of the Kurdish guerrillas.
Nevertheless, Mihemmed Mukrî (Mohammad Mokri, b. 1952),
one of the best Kurdish novelists, brought out his attractive lyri-
cal novel Heres (Avalanche; 1985) and Tole (Revenge; 1985) under
these conditions, as did Sherko Bêkes (b. 1945), who published
Helo (Eagle; a collection of poems in three parts, 1986).
In the Diaspora
24
Written Kurdish Literature
25
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15 The Kurdish Institute of Paris was in fact the first to encourage the develop-
ment of Zaza.
26
Written Kurdish Literature
27
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28
Written Kurdish Literature
29
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16 The Kurds were under a triple embargo—from the United Nations after
the Gulf War in 1991, from Baghdad, and from Iraq’s neighbors, who were
concerned that a successful Kurdish government in Iraq could incite Kurd-
ish minorities in their own territories.
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Written Kurdish Literature
In independent Armenia
31
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32
Chapter 2
Christine Allison
33
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�
traditions, though the Bibliography should prove adequate for
those who wish to study this literature further. There is an undue
bias here towards the poetic genres rather than prose. Again, this
is partly for reasons of space, but also because most of the poetry
enjoys higher prestige and popularity amongst the Kurds. I have
intentionally passed quickly over those oral traditions, interesting
though they are, which are shared with Persians, Turks and Arabs.
The poetry discussed here is distinctively Kurdish; it may contain
motifs which are shared, but it embodies Kurdish concerns, and
has meaning within the modern Kurdish discourse. Much of it also
concerns events from Kurdish history.
34
Kurdish Oral Literature
35
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36
Kurdish Oral Literature
literature (1926, p.╯228), but Driver (1919, p.╯30) reports that Ibra-
him Pasha Milli’s son Mehmud Bey, whose stronghold was at Vi-
ranshehir (now in Turkey), was illiterate. It is likely that some of
the “folk” poets and storytellers in these courts were literate and
multilingual.
In the past, Kurdish communities lived alongside Christians,
Jews and Turkmen, speakers of Armenian, neo-Aramaic, and
Turkish dialects. Not only did these languages share many oral
traditions with Kurdish, but many members of minority groups
spoke impeccable Kurdish, and some have been recorded perform-
ing Kurdish oral literature. There are many examples in Celîl 1978.
Zaza and Gurâni, Western Iranian dialects spoken by substantial
communities of Kurds (van Bruinessen 1994, pp.╯29–37), also have
a rich oral literature; in the case of Gurâni this lies alongside an
established literary tradition. These dialects share many traditions
and genres with Kurmanji and Sorani. Such local linguistic and cul-
tural variety has added to the richness of Kurdish oral literature.
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38
Kurdish Oral Literature
1 Ancient history, particularly the belief that the Kurds are descended from
the Medes, has been strongly emphasized. The Kurdish satellite station
MED-TV and its successors in particular screened programs about ancient
history and about Kurdish folklore, placing great emphasis on symbols
such as the Newroz festival.
39
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40
Kurdish Oral Literature
4. Genre
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42
Kurdish Oral Literature
Certain local terms have been directly equated with etic terms.
Thus, dastan, hikaye and efsane are “epic,” “story,” and “legend”
respectively. This is useful as a general rule of thumb but does not
bear detailed scrutiny; apart from the debates surrounding these
terms in English, there are always Kurdish exceptions, areas and
contexts where the terms have other meanings. The term dastan/
destan, for example, for most Kurdish scholars, means a long, el-
evated heroic or romantic narrative about exceptional people and
events. However, in some areas the term means little more than
“narrative” and does not have heroic connotations. It does not nec-
essarily denote a specific form; the telling may be in prose, or poet-
ry, or both. But if a tradition is described to a researcher as dastan/
destan, it is likely that it is prestigious and that long poems exist on
the subject even if the individual performance attended by the re-
searcher is a prose account. General terms for oral literature, both
prose and poetry, are often taken from other languages, such as
qisse from Arabic, but Kurdish terms such as axiftin, gotin, which
strictly mean “speech,” are also sometimes used.
Many terms describing form are used in Kurdish. The oral lit-
erature includes much poetry, most of which is sung, with or with-
out musical accompaniment. There is a general distinction between
the long narrative poem and the shorter lyrical song; in fact they
are usually performed in different ways by different types of per-
former (see above). The long narrative is called beyt in most Sorani
areas and some Kurmanji areas,3 and qewl in other Kurmanji areas,
but in Kurmanji at least both these terms can also mean shorter
religious poems, such as the Yezidi Qewls and Beyts. There seems
to be no special word distinguishing the form cante fable, or alter-
nating prose and verse, from verse narrative. Other terms for the
verse narratives include shi’r, an Arabic word meaning “poetry” in
general, bend which can also mean a line or verse of poetry, and the
Sorani bend û baw. The shorter, lyrical song is called stran, meqam,
kilam, goranî, which are also general words for ‘song’; the longer
songs are called lawik, qetar or heyran. Livêj /liwêj is sometimes
3 Pace Chyet 1991, p.╯8 0. The word is used in this sense in Badinan at least.
For the use of qewl in this sense see Chyet op. cit., p.╯78.
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used for lyric in general, but often indicates a song with a religious
theme. Heyran, heyranok often denotes love songs in particular.
This distinction between narrative and lyric holds good in many
areas, but it is important to note that it is not absolute; there are
many borderline cases where, for example, a song performed by
a stranbêj may contain various narrative elements. Kreyenbroek
(1999) has usefully suggested the term “allusive” poetry, which al-
ludes to events or beliefs known by the audience, but which are not
explained within the poem itself. A whole spectrum of material
exists, from poems which recount stories to songs which are very
allusive indeed, which require a great deal of background knowl-
edge to understand them, and whose purpose is to arouse emotion
rather than to inform. A great deal of the literature lies between
these two extremes.
There are many less prestigious verse forms. The upbeat dance
songs with strong rhythms, called dîlan, govend, reqs or beste
are particularly popular, and performed at weddings and celebra-
tions; Bedir Khan (1932, p.╯11), on the other hand, defines beste
as “les chansons plus lourdes” with melismas and repetition. Vari-
ous examples of traditional lullabies or lorî have been collected (e.g.
Nikitine 1947, p.╯46). Most work songs, on which little has been
written, have disappeared, but some are still remembered, such as
the rhythmic songs for grinding grain and cutting crops. Laments
for the dead, called shîn, dîlok/dîrok (a usage probably peculiar to
Yezidis, since dîrok more usually means ‘history’), giriyan, lawar-
na are the province of women and an important social duty in all
Kurdish communities. They are performed on specific occasions
and are to be distinguished from the lyrical eulogies performed by
singers who are usually male.
The meters of Kurdish oral poetry are not well understood. Ear-
ly attempts to analyze it in terms of quantitative meters (Socin 1890,
pp.╯x xxviii–lxiii) were less productive than emphases on stress or
syllabic meter (Mann 1909, p.╯x xxii ff.). Although these are useful
for some areas, such as the syllabic Gurâni and Sorani poetry, it
is clear from the collections that in other poetry line length can
be very variable, making meaningful syllable-counts difficult, and
that rhyme, which is a noticeable feature in most poetry, can be
44
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consistent for many lines, or for just a few.4 The Kurdologist Basil
Nikitine (1956, p.╯270) goes so far as to say that Kurdish folk poetry
“ignore à vrai dire le rythme et ne connaît que la rime.” Chyet (1991↜a
I, p.╯144), who gives a very useful account of stanzaic structure in
narrative poetry, says of Kurdish folk poetry: “Meter as we know
it does not exist, syllable counts being a useful substitute.” How-
ever, for some areas and genres the evidence suggests otherwise; in
Badinan, for instance, many examples of narrative beyts are highly
rhythmic, with strong stresses in the lines, whereas the performers
of lyrical stran deliver their long lines very fast, with some extend-
ed melismas towards the end of the (clearly marked) stanzas. Such
confusions will not be resolved until broad comparative studies are
undertaken which are sensitive to genre and regional differences,
and which include melody types and other performance details. It
is clear that melody plays an important part in Kurdish poetics; if
Kurdish rhythm and meter are to be understood properly, the vital
dimension of performance must not be ignored.
Kurdish prose genres are not yet well understood either. Of the
narrative genres, a key distinction is that between fiction, chîrok
(which includes efsane and hikaye) and fact; a historical narrative
(dîrok, tarix) would rarely be called chîrok. It is unclear how far
Kurds consciously perceive subdivisions within these broad cat-
egories. One well-defined prose genre, however, is the proverb,
pendekan, gotinên mezin, gotinên pêshiyan, “the sayings of the an-
cestors.” They are usually short and pithy; many use rhyme. Some
are extremely blunt, others more oblique so that their meaning is
obscure to outsiders.
4 The words that rhyme at the end of the lines usually have their stress on
the penultimate syllable in both narrative and lyric. The many varieties in
rhyme-scheme make it difficult to draw up fixed definitions of stanza (cf.
Mann loc. cit).
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5. Performers
There is often a distinction in Kurdish between those performers
who perform with musical accompaniment and those who use only
their voice. For the former, the Turkish term ashik is often used in
the former Soviet Union and Iran; Kurdish terms include stranbêj
(song-teller) elsewhere in Kurmanji areas and guranbêj in Sorani
areas. The latter are often called dengbêj (voice-teller) in Kurmanji
and chirger (singer) in Sorani, and are usually associated with the
long narrative poems, whereas the stranbêj perform folk-songs,
stran or kilam, which are often lyrical, and accompany themselves
with instruments such as the saz, tembur, oudh, and kemanche
(Celîl 1978 II, p.╯26; Allison 2001, pp.╯68–70). A dengbêj may also
accompany his singing by clapping his hands or by striking other
available surfaces. However, this distinction is not absolute; narra-
tive poetry can be accompanied with musical instruments.
Becoming a dengbêj or stranbêj required considerable train-
ing. Oskar Mann has described how aspiring performers would
apprentice themselves to a known singer and learn his repertoire,
paying for their training by doing chores (Mann 1906, pp.╯x xviii-
xxix). Some would build up their own repertoires by moving on to
other masters. It is unclear whether “lessons” as such were given or
whether the student learned by imitation and constant exposure to
the master’s music. However, having had an apprenticeship with a
known performer was an important element in being accepted as
a performer oneself. The performer who has learned from reading
books (or watching videos) is a modern phenomenon and probably
not yet fully acceptable as a dengbêj or stranbêj. Many children
of performers, both boys and girls, have been pupils of their par-
ents, a convenient arrangement for girls in particular, who would
be less able to travel elsewhere to learn. It seems that there was
also prestige for the master in being seen to have pupils. Along
with the composition of new songs to be performed alongside the
famous old ones, having pupils was an attribute which marked out
the truly successful performer.
Nearly a century ago, Oskar Mann described traveling perform-
ers in Persia who gave performances in exchange for payments
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6. Shared traditions
The Kurds share many of their traditions with other peoples of the
Middle East and Central Asia. Many of the long narrative tradi-
tions, which have been termed “romantic,” “epic” or “heroic,” are
ubiquitous, such as Yusof and Zoleykhâ and Leyli and Majnun.
Others are better known in some regions than others, for obvi-
ous reasons; the collections show that traditions about the Turkic
hero Koroglî (Koroghlu, Gurughlî) are better known in the Cau-
casus and Iran than in Iraq. As one would expect of an Iranophone
people, the Kurds possess many narrative traditions also common
in Persian, such as Farhâd and Shirin, Khosrow and Shirin, Vis and
Râmin, Bizhan and Manizhe. All of these common traditions have
been found in the form of long narrative poems, spoken prose al-
ternating with sung verse, and prose tellings; many also exist in al-
lusive lyrical songs, where the singer takes the part of a protagonist
and addresses others. They are also alluded to in proverbs.
Of course, the Kurds use such common traditions for their own
purposes, and there are interesting differences from the renderings
of other peoples. The large body of traditions about the great war-
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as the evil dêw (the Persian div), ogres, and other monsters. The
mythical bird called Sîmirkh, the Persian Simorgh, is terrifying but
often gives help in exchange for favors done. The perî or fairy is
ambivalent and mischievous; it may cause harm for humans or give
help, especially when services are rendered; the same may be said of
the jinn. Heroes sometimes marry fairy princesses in the course of
the story. The benign figure of Khizir or Khidr, known throughout
the Islamic world, often provides help and guidance; unlike some
other peoples, such as the Arabs of the Gulf, the Kurds often do
not distinguish between him and Elyas. Ancient and supernatural
elements may be used alongside objects from modern life such as
telephones or automobiles with no apparent harm done to the audi-
ence’s enjoyment (e.g. MacKenzie 1990 II, p.╯11).
Less obviously “supernatural” figures occurring in Kurdish folk
narratives are also shared with other peoples. These include Mul-
lah/Hoja Nasreddin, who is also locally known as Bahluli-Zana
and Mela Mezbûre, and the bald-headed trickster Kechelok. Many
stories are also told about the prophets, especially Solomon; these
vary in the number of supernatural elements in them. Some remote
historical figures have also accumulated a great many stories. Alex-
ander the Great and Shah Abbâs, like Solomon, are often present-
ed as archetypal arrogant kings who are taught a lesson, often by
lesser beings. They believe that they are immortal and try unsuc-
cessfully to avoid death, or they attempt to extract tribute from all,
even the animals (Celîl 1978 II, pp.╯185–99). Like their neighbors,
the Kurds portray Alexander as horned (a feature derived from the
Qor’anic Dhu’l Qarneyn: XVIII, 84↜ff, “having two horns”, gener-
ally believed to have been a reference to Alexander); this attribute
was clearly felt to be mysterious and inspired various stories such
as that of the discovery of his four horns by his barber, who told
Alexander’s secret to some reeds growing by a spring. When they
were cut they told it to everyone (Celîl 1978 II, p.╯198).
Like those of their neighbors, many Kurdish fairytales follow
the common pattern of an unproved hero, often a younger brother,
receiving magical help from sorcerers, jinns or animals, facing drag-
ons, monsters, witches or evil monarchs, and overcoming them to
win one (or more) princesses. Characters are stereotypical; women
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7. Kurdish traditions
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Her minarekê li ser sêsid û şeşt û şeş Each minaret serves three hundred
malane, and sixty six houses,
Qesr û qonaxê Alan-paşa li ser çar The castle and palace of Alan-
lengerane, pasha is on four anchors,
Du lengerê wî li orÔa beḥrane, Two of its anchors in the middle of
the sea,
Du lengerê wî li serê çîyane, Two of its anchors on the tops of
mountains,
Ev qesra hane li ser çar ṭebeqane, The castle contains four stories,
Her ṭebeqekê li ser sêsid û şeşt û şeş Each story contains three hundred
odane, and sixty-six rooms,
Her enişkê qesrê, kevirekî aqût û In every corner of the castle is a
almast têda cîdane, stone of rubies and diamonds,
Ev kevirê hanê, şewqa xwe dide These stones shine out over the
orṭa beḥrane. middle of the sea,
Her odakê sê katib têda rûniştîne, In every room three scribes are
seated,
Li ser kursîya destê wan ser masane, In chairs, their hands on the table,
Qelemê wan bînanê jeḥra meŕane, Their pens like the venom of snakes,
Rojê ḥezara digrin, davêjine ḥebs Each day they take a thousand
û singdana, û pênsid ji ḥebsa [men] and throw them in the
berdane … dungeon, and set five hundred
free …
Despite the grandeur of many parts of the story, there are also
lighter moments. When Zîn is magically transported to Mem’s bed
by fairies or angels who want to see who is the more beautiful, sev-
eral versions exploit the humor of the situation, featuring the two
arguing over where they are and who is the intruder. One version
collected from the Antep area in 1901 has a very developed dispute.
It does not seem to be love at first sight; Mem’s amazing beauty
apparently does not have the usual effect on Zîn. Each demands to
know what the other is doing in the bed and threatens to call the
guards. They accuse each other of drunkenness, smoking hashish
and general immorality. Zîn, anxious about the compromise to her
good name, calls her maidens, “O maidens! What hashish-smoker
is this that has come to my bed tonight? It’s a disgrace! Send news
of this to my cousins the Jelalîs, our butchers, so that they will
send his arms to the other world for me.” Mem retorts, “… as for
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smoking hashish, whose daughter are you … that you are taking
over my abode?” Each then gives their name and family, and de-
scribes their city. They agree to call for their respective servants to
test where they are. Of course, it is Mem’s servants who reply, be-
cause they are in Mem’s castle. Zîn immediately changes her tune,
throwing herself at Mem’s feet and saying, “Don’t do to me what
I have threatened to do to you!” The exchange of rings as love-
tokens then takes place very quickly, and receives far less attention
than the conflict between the lovers (von Le Coq 1901, pp.╯36–44;
tr. Chyet 1991 II, pp.╯68–72).
The oral versions of Mem and Zîn represent a tragic and moving
tale set in a fantasy Kurdistan. It is easy to see how a good story-
teller could make this very entertaining, but this does not explain
what sets this tradition above other tragic love narratives such as
Khej and Siyabend in Kurdish opinion. The answer seems to be
the association of the Mem and Zîn oral traditions with the liter-
ary epic. Ehmedê Khanî’s epic was not the first literary work to
be written in Kurdish, but it was clearly an attempt at a new kind
of Kurdish literature; it shows awareness of, and pride in, Kurdish
identity. In the modern period it has also inspired Kurdish intel-
lectuals, who have seen it as a proto-nationalist text (Şakeli 1983).
Khanî’s remarks in the introductory section, criticizing Persian
and Turkish rule over the Kurds (Bozarslan 1990, p.╯56), and the
story itself has been read as an allegory, with Mem and Zîn repre-
senting the two parts of Kurdistan divided between the Ottoman
and Persian empires (Hassanpour 1989, p.╯84). It is also a status
symbol for Kurdish culture, a work which cannot be dismissed as
“folklore.” The Memê Alan traditions have basked in its reflected
glory and have borrowed elements from it, and have been set apart
from other Kurdish oral literature. Mem and Zîn’s perceived sig-
nificance as a nationalistic work may also account for the lack of
studies of it in the former Soviet Union, where Kurdish national-
ism, like other minority nationalisms, was discouraged. In the for-
mer Soviet Union, unlike Europe, there are far fewer publications
on Mem and Zîn than on Dimdim. 6
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Dimdim
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mission, builds the fortress, but as his power grows the Shah sends an
army against him. They locate the action in Iranian Kurdistan, but
some emphasize the role of tribes and places in Iraq; for example, the
Khan is said by some to come from Amadiya. The two versions from
Iran (Mann 1906, pp.╯1, 12) are in the Mukri sub-dialect of Sorani,
and one presents the Kurds’ resistance to the Shah as a holy war.
The Mukri poem stands out from the others, not only in terms
of dialect; it uses the rhyming system of most Kurdish folk narra-
tive poetry, but whereas many of the Kurmanji versions are almost
uniform in line length, the Mukri poem has an introductory section
where the lines are far longer. It opens as follows (Mann 1906, p.╯12):
Dilim ranawestê li ber ewê xemê, li My heart cannot withstand this
ber ewê janê pain, this sorrow,
Bangêkim we ber xudayî, ewî dî I call on God, I call again on the
kem ber pêxemberî axirî zemanê, Prophet of the end of the world,
Bangî dî kem we ber çakî germênê I call on the holy one of winter quar-
û le kuêstanê, ters and high summer pastures,
Bangî dî kem we ber Pîr Suŀêmanî I call again on Pir Suleyman of
li Banê, Bane,
Bangî dî kem we ber Suŀtan Semedî I call again on Sultan Semed who
malê xoî dakird li deştî Wurmê dwelt on Urmiya plain by an-
digeŀ kewne Lacanê … cient Lajan…
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This Kurmanji version and others like it move straight into the sto-
ry. They do not necessarily cut straight to the siege; some chroni-
cle the development of the relationship between the Khan and the
Shah, and its breakdown, in some detail. The Khan may win favor
with the Shah, and in some versions he wins a golden hand as well,
by protecting the Shah’s horses, or fighting a lion. Introductory
formulae, if they exist at all, are short. The Kurmanji versions of
this beyt are overall less lyrical and allusive than the Mukri poem.
Much of the Mukri poem consists of soliloquies, or of listings, such
as when the Khan looks out and sees first one rider, then another,
from different places; each is described in succession. There is a
great deal of repetition for poetic effect rather than plot advance-
ment. Typical of this is the eulogy of Dimdim itself, part of which
is given here (Mann 1906, p.╯16–17)9:
Dimdimim berdî debêye My Dimdim is a rock like a
powder- flask,
Karîtey geye Kûkeye Its beams stretch as far as Kuke.
Xan bi xezayê meşġule. The Prince is waging holy war.
Dimdimim berdêkî xiče My Dimdim is a round rock,
Čûar ṭerefî lêwe biče, Surrounded on all four sides,
Beheşte bi şîr bikiče Win paradise by your sword!
Xan bi xezayê meşġule The Prince is waging holy war.
Dimdimim berdêkî şîne My Dimdim is a blue-green rock,
Čûar zistane, pênc hawîne For four winters, for five summers,
Têda Xanî Lebzêrîne Prince Goldenhand has been inside
it,
Zeferiyan pê nebirdîne. They have won no victory over it.
The Kurmanji versions have soliloquies and emotional passages
too, but the Mukri poem has fewer narrative sections in between.
The listener needs more background knowledge of the plot to
�understand the poem than s/he does for most of the Kurmanji po-
ems. Of course, lyrical elements are not the exclusive province of
Sorani narrative traditions; Kurmanji narratives sometimes have
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them too. The point here is that even when very little performance
data is available, the same narrative tradition can be seen to have a
range of different treatments in different areas. Research with audi-
ences would be needed to ascertain whether the emotions aroused
by the Mukri Dimdim are different in nature or intensity from
those aroused by the Kurmanji versions, and how this would vary
in different areas.
Given the lack of “oral literary criticism,” or studies of audi-
ence response to Dimdim, we must look elsewhere for indications
of its contemporary meanings for the Kurds, and we find these in
the modern accounts. It has been the subject of novels and poet-
ry (�Shemo 1966; Dost 1991). One particularly interesting version,
whose emphases reveal something of patriotic Kurdish preoccupa-
tions, was “edited” and published in 1970 by Jasimê Jelîl, a poet and
folklorist living in the former Soviet Union (republished in Arabic
script in 1982). Like some of the oral versions, the need to explain dif-
ficult words result in rationalistic explanations; however, unlike the
Mukri, Iraqi and Anatolian versions, the name Goldenhand comes
from a trial in which the Khan shows a horrified Shah his bravery
in holding a red-hot coal unflinchingly in his bare hand. This is one
of various proofs of his heroism, and an important episode in the
relationship with the Shah, which is carefully developed. The name
Dimdim itself is also explained, as an onomatopoeic word for the
noise of a stone dropped from the castle down into the valley.
Social concerns are also evident in this version. The lovely Gul-
bihar, the Khan’s wife, is the daughter of a simple shepherd; beauty
is not only found amongst the nobles, says Jalîl. The hierarchical
system is also implicitly criticized; the Shah is in many ways re-
luctant to fight the Khan but is forced to do so by the system in
which he lives. It is easy to discern the socialist focus here. When
all is lost for the fortress, Gulbihar escapes with her children, hav-
ing made an impassioned speech to the Khan, saying that women
are as strong as men and that she will face the future and bring up
their sons alone. This latter point is not merely ideological but also
highly resonant; many Kurdish women are left with children, ei-
ther through their husband’s death or his joining resistance forces,
and this is an important area of the Kurdish experience.
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8. Kurdish lyric
Events of modern history, especially of the nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries, are sometimes commemorated in long narra-
tive poems (for example the Twelve Horsemen of Merîwan, and
a “Barzani beyt” which glorifies a clan prominent in religion and
politics, exists in Northern Iraq) but more often they survive in
the form of lyrical songs. Although such songs remain popular and
are performed more often than the long narrative poems, many
describe local events and personalities. They contain many stock
elements, and often little background information within the song
itself; performers sometimes contextualize them for modern audi-
ences by a brief introduction. Many of these lyrical traditions are
very conservative; the audiences expect the performers to conserve
the original composition. However, it may be that the allusive na-
ture of the songs and their need for contextualization makes them
harder to preserve intact than narratives, which at least have the
course of the story as a mnemonic. If they have a shorter lifespan
than narratives, this may explain why the vast majority of the sur-
viving songs refer to the last two centuries only.
The presence of stock elements in the songs and the audience’s
conservative expectations do not rule out creativity in performance,
though it is hard to perceive this from those collections that give
texts alone. For example, in the tradition of lyrical song or stran
performed primarily by the Yezidis of Northern Iraq, which was
once also widespread in Turkey (where it was usually called lawik),
audiences respond to such devices as a speedy delivery with very
little pause for breath, and extremely long melismas near the ends
of lines. Comparison of different performances of the same song
shows that singers can be individualistic, or even idiosyncratic in
style. Audiences also have strong opinions about the strength and
quality of individual singers’ voices.
Many of the martial lyrics concern battles between tribes or be-
tween a tribe and Government forces. The version of a song about
the two brothers Bishar and Jemîlê Cheto which was collected by
Basil Nikitine (1947, p.╯40–41; unfortunately, only published in its
French translation) opens with a statement by Bishar:
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With a few exceptions, such as those songs where Mem and Zîn
or Khej and Siyabend declare their love for each other, Kurdish
love lyrics are about historical individuals, who lived within the
last two centuries or so. In these songs we can see the interplay
of true stories with the conventions of this form of oral litera-
ture. These lyrics describe heterosexual love, and often deal with
the conflict between a lover’s wish for union with the beloved
and the conflict resulting from his/her social duty of marrying
another. Sometimes there is another reason for the lovers’ sepa-
ration—the illness or death of the beloved, or an event that may
have sent him/her far away. The songs are firmly rooted in vil-
lage or tribal life, with many small and everyday details. They
may contain the words of the woman or the man, or both in
conversation with each other. A typical example is the song of
Besna, a young woman of the Omeri tribe (near Mardin, Turkey),
who complains bitterly about having been married off to an old
man. (Collected from the well-known singer Ehmedê Fermanê
Kîkî, Bedir Khan 1933).
Â�… Werê kutiyê dilan vekin, … Come, let us open the boxes in
our hearts.
Ji derdê dinyayê, biqul û birîn e, Pained and injured from the grief
of the world,
Feleqa min dawî nîne, dinya Alas, I have no future, the world is
derewîn e, false,
Bavê min xêrê bike, xêrê nebîne, Let my father do good but never
get it,
Genim biçîne, zîwana reş hilînê, Let him sow wheat and reap black
weeds,
Çima ne dam torînê mala Ḥesen Why didn’t he give me to the young
aġa man from Hesen Agha’s house,
Xortê di Omerîyan, simbêlsorê ser A young Omerî man with red
Xanîya, moustache up on the flat roof,
Ez dam Brahîmê Temo, mîna gayê But he gave me to Ibrahim Temo,
pîre, who is like an old ox,
Dranê wî ketine riya wî a spî di His teeth all gone, his white beard
hinarê rêyê min rabûne … scratches my cheek…
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After some years of this marriage, Besna eloped with a young man.
There is more than one tradition of lyrical songs about her (Bedir
Khan 1933; Cigerxwîn 1988, pp.╯151–53).
Some lyrical songs express conflicting emotions, which makes
them all the more convincing. For example, there is a tradition of
songs called Xerabo! (Bad boy!), in which a young girl rebukes her
beloved, usually for marrying another. In one Omeri variant the
girl says:
Xerabo, weleh, tu xerabî. Bad boy, you really are wicked.
Tuê ji dinyayê, ji alemê xirabtir î. You’re worse than the world, worse
than the universe.
Tu ji koma pismamê mi çêtir î. You’re better than my cousin’s lot
[i.e. her in-laws].
She curses him at various points for having married another, wish-
ing sickness and death on him. Yet later she says:
Xwedê teyala bike, Rebî, heçi ji May God grant that whoever says
xerabê min re bêje “Tu xerabo” to my bad boy, “you are bad,”
Bila karîn û warîna zarokê nêr tu May there never be the cries of a
care dimala wan de nabo! boy-child in their house!
Bila sed olçek genimê sor li bine If they sow a hundred measures of
beriya Mêrdînê biçîne, li şwîne bila red wheat down before Mardin,
qerezîwana reş nabo! let there be no black buckwheat
in their plot!
Êmayî, bila kuliyê par û pêrar lê For the rest let the locusts of last
rabo! year and the year before attack it!
and:
Heçî ji Xerabê mi re bêje: Whoever says to my bad boy
“Tu baş î, tu pirî genc î,” “You are good, very handsome,”
Xwedê teyala bike, Rebî, kulmek May God grant, if they sow a fist-
garîsêli pişta mala biçine, ful of millet behind the house,
Li şwîne sed olçek genimê sor hilîne, Let a hundred measures of red
wheat grow up on their plot of
land;
Bi ofara bînî qîza şêxkî, aġakî ji That the grain left on the thresh-
xwe re bîne… ing-floor is enough for him to
marry the daughter of a shaikh
or agha…
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Lamentation
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69
Chapter 3
Philip G. Kreyenbroek
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Orality and Religion in Kurdistan
Haqq Kalâm and the Yezidi Qewl and Beyt,1 in a sense represent
these communities’ equivalents to the scriptural traditions of other
faiths; they are regarded in that light by some Western researchers,
and increasingly by members of the groups themselves (see further
below). Although they were traditionally handed down orally, the
poems were memorized verbatim by trained “reciters,” and they
appear to have been preserved relatively faithfully, in some cases
for a very long time. When studied in isolation most of these texts
are very difficult to understand, which seems to invite comparison
with Zarathustra’s equally perplexing Gâthâs. While any explana-
tory tradition to the Gâthâs is probably lost for all time, however,
most of the sacred poetry of the Ahlâ•‚e Haqq and Yezidis can be
understood in light of the sects’ traditional religious knowledge,
which at the time of writing is endangered but still in existence.
One of the great opportunities the study of these religious sys-
tems offers, in fact, is the possibility of analyzing and demonstrat-
ing the interdependence, in two non-literate cultures, between
formal sacral poetry on the one hand, and the religious narrative
tradition in its various forms on the other. The Ahlâ•‚e Haqq and
Yezidi traditions further illustrate both the tenacity and the adapt-
ability of these largely non-literate cultures, and their ability to
shape their sacred texts in such a way as to maximize their effec-
tiveness as religious discourse.
After some general remarks on the Yezidi and Ahlâ•‚e Haqq com-
munities, this chapter will examine aspects of their poetic and reli-
gious traditions, with some emphasis on the sacred poems.
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Demography
Both Yezidis and Ahlâ•‚e Haqq have important centers in the area
generally known as Kurdistan. The heart of the spiritual universe
of Yezidism is Lalish, somewhat to the north of Mosul in Northern
Iraq, which contains the great sanctuary of Shaikh Adi. Important
Yezidi communities live in the Sheykhân and Jabal Senjâr areas of
Northern Iraq. Some groups have settled in Armenia and Georgia,
and a smaller number live in Syria. Remnants of the once large
Yezidi community of Turkey are still found in southeastern parts
of that country, but most Turkish Yezidis have sought refuge from
religious persecution in Western Europe, notably in Germany. All
Yezidis speak Kurmanji Kurdish and most of their religious texts
are in that language. The Ahlâ•‚e Haqq are ethnically and linguis-
tically more diverse. There are communities in Iraqi Kurdistan
(where they are generally known as Kâkâ’i), in the Iranian prov-
inces of Kordestân, Kermânshâh, and Western Azerbaijan, and
in Tehran and some other Iranian cities. In the course of history,
Persian, Kurdish, Lori, and Turkish-speaking communities have
all contributed to the Ahlâ•‚e Haqq tradition (Minorsky 1953, 1954;
Weightman 1964; Hamzeh’ee 1990, p.╯23). From the point of view
of oral religious literature,2 however, the most important tradition
is that of the Gurân area in the extreme west of Kermânshâh prov-
ince in Iran, in whose language (Gurâni, see MacKenzie 1961; Blau
1996, p.╯21), the largest and best known collections of Kalâms are
composed. Gurâni is sometimes referred to as the “sacred language”
of the group.
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Religious affiliations
History
The founder of the mystical Order that was to give rise to Yezidism
was a Sufi of Umayyad descent and strongly Sunni leanings. Shai-
kh Adi ebn Mosâfer (d. circa 1160 ce) settled in the Kurdish Hak-
kâri mountains in the early twelfth century ce, where he attracted
many followers. These eventually formed a Sufi Order, the Adawi-
yya, whose membership extended far beyond Kurdistan. Less than
a hundred years after Shaikh Adi’s death we hear of aberrant views
among the Adawis living in the Lalish area; as these tendencies
grew stronger they led to tensions with the sect’s orthodox neigh-
bors, and eventually, it seems, to the alienation of Yezidism from
Islam (Kreyenbroek 1995↜a, pp.╯27–36).
Soltân Sahâk, whom the Ahlâ•‚e Haqq regard as the founder of
their tradition and as a major incarnation of the Divine, probably
flourished in the Gurân area in the fifteenth century ce (Mokri
1963; Mir-Hosseini 1996, p.╯114). Since his followers regarded Ali
as one of many divine manifestations they were regarded as ultra-
Shi’ites (gholât) and their Islamic identity was not challenged.
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One of the most striking elements shared by the Ahlâ•‚e Haqq and
Yezidi traditions is their distinctive myth of the Cosmogony. In
both traditions it is said that God the Creator first fashioned a
Pearl which contained the various elements that were to form the
universe. He then evoked a group of seven divine beings and made
a Pact with their leader, who became the Lord of this world. A
bull-sacrifice, it seems, was performed.3 After this the Pearl dis-
integrated and its elements formed the world we know. The world
was left to the care of the Seven.
Both Ahlâ•‚e Haqq and Yezidi beliefs are based upon the view
that some of the events of the Time of Creation essentially repeat
themselves again and again in cycles of exoteric history, which are
in fact no more than manifestations of a deeper, esoteric reality.
God and the Seven, in other words, play their roles on earth during
each period of history in various manifestations as human beings.
The Ahlâ•‚e Haqq tradition lays greater emphasis on this cyclical
aspect, whilst the Yezidi texts seem to focus more on the essentially
divine nature of Shaikh Adi and the Holy Men associated with
him (Kreyenbroek 1998, pp.╯176–79). The fundamental idea that
the same essence may surface more than once in different forms
also finds expression in the belief in reincarnation, which is found
in both traditions, and in the meta-historical character of their reli-
gious narratives. These may imply, for instance, that one historical
figure was essentially identical with another who lived at a differ-
ent time, both being manifestations of an essence which already
existed at the time of Creation. This perspective informs the oral
religious traditions of both sects.
3 This element of the myth is not attested in the Yezidi texts that have so far
come to light, but see Kreyenbroek 1995, pp.╯56–57.
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Polyvalence
Characteristic topics
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4 Both “Pearl” and “Stone,” it seems, are names for the primeval object from
which the world originated. On the connection between the Pearl in the
Yezidi and Ahlâ•‚e Haqq traditions, the stone Sky in early Zoroastrianism,
and the Indo-Iranian image of an enclosing space of rock or stone that con-
tained the prototypes of the constituent elements of the world, see Kreyen-
broek 1995, pp.╯52–59.
5 The number of these beings is generally said to be seven.
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Legends and myths concerning the life and exploits of the found-
ers of the tradition, their companions, and other great figures of
old, are prominent in both traditions; among the Yezidis the lat-
ter group includes personalities who also play a role in the Islamic
tradition, e.g. Ebrâhim, Esmâ’il, and great Sufis such as al-Hallâj
and Râbe’e al-Adawiyye. Both traditions make it clear that such
figures are seen as manifestations of an essence that may also have
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Mystical themes
Reference has already been made to the influence of the Sufi tradi-
tion on the Yezidi Qewls. In fact the sacred poems of both com-
munities contain references to concepts, insights and symbols de-
riving from Islamic mysticism. One such concept is that of the nafs
or “ego-soul,” which must be controlled if a person is to achieve
or maintain spiritual purity. In the following passage from a Qewl
the ego-soul is compared to a horse, which will run wild if it is not
controlled.6
Weke te bor nedibeste If you have not tied up your horse
Lixaf û hefsar çûn ji deste You lose control of the bit and the
reins,
Borê te li hemû mêrga dike qeste Your horse will make for all pos-
sible pastures.
Ew şuġlê nefsê bû, xulkê xudanî ji That is the work of the ego-soul,
ber şikeste. corrupting the divine nature.
We nabî, we nasêwirî Let this not be, it is not right!
Ne wacibê erkanêye, borê te li There is no need to let your horse
hemû mêrga biçerî feed on all pastures
Ew şuġlê nefsê bû, roja axiretê That is the work of the ego-soul;
xulkê xudanî ji ber kirî. on the Last Day your divine
nature will have been lost.
A deeper understanding of mystical concepts is probably restricted,
however, to a limited circle of educated community members.
6 The passage is from the Qewlê Babekê Omera, which was recited for Dr.
Khalil J. Rashow by Shaikh Eli, son of Shaikh Shemo. It was transcribed by
the former and translated by the present writer.
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Formal characteristics
From a formal point of view the sacred poems of the two groups
have little in common. The Gurâni Kalâms have a syllabic meter,
with two half-verses of five syllables each. The first four half-verses
of a poem (or sequence of poems) usually show the rhyme-scheme
a a, b a or, less often, a a, a a. In older Kalāms,7 part or all of the
first half-verse is usually repeated in the second. Some collections
of texts consist entirely of quatrains with such a rhyme scheme
(Mokri 1969). Other Kalāms tend to have longer poems, which
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8 Passages which occur in a Qewl may also form part of a prayer, see e.g.
Kreyenbroek 1995, pp.╯216–17 and pp.╯258–61.
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The following passages from Ahlâ•‚e Haqq and Yezidi sacred po-
ems may serve to illustrate some of the differences and similarities
between the two. Both texts deal with the theme of the capture of a
falcon (on which see above). The following stanzas from the Ahlâ•‚e
Haqq text known as Dawra-y Dâmyârî (The Cycle of the Hunt;
Mokri 1967, p.╯206), are said to have been uttered by the Holy Be-
ings Benyâmin and Dâwud:
Benyâmin maramô: dâmim wa Benyâmin says: I have the trap in
dastâ my hand
Wa lutf-e Khwâjâm dâmim wa By the grace of the Master I have
dastâ the trap in my hand.
Dâwud-e Rahbar wa shun-e shastâ Dâwud is the Guide follows the
hunt
Khwâjâm qodrata My Master is the Power
gholâm sarmastâ his slave is intoxicated.
Dâwud maramô: dâmish niyâni Dâwud says: He has set his trap,
Dâmyâr Benyâmin dâmish niyâni Benyâmin the Hunter has set his
trap.
Neynâ tananish waraw kaywâni He has made it just now, facing
Saturn,
Shahbâziš girtan Khwâjây Penhâni He caught the noble falcon, the
Lord of the Hidden.
As was noted earlier, the Yezidi Qewlê Pîr Sheref (Kreyenbroek
1995↜a, pp.╯264–72), which includes the following passage, empha-
sizes the ephemeral nature of the protagonist’s success in capturing
the falcon:9
Mestim sikranim I am drunk, I am intoxicated
Nêçîrvanê bazani I am a hunter of falcons
Aşiqê surra giranim …9 I am a lover of the precious Mys-
tery …
Dava min ji muwe My trap is made of hair
Derê dirba vedibuwe Its mouth is open
Baziyek tê weribuwe A falcon was caught in it
Min nedizanî ji min berbuwe I did not know, it left me.
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Music
Transmitters
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nificance of the oral Qewl tradition was not recognized, and since
only one uninformative Arabic text had been produced in response
to travelers’ queries, it was assumed that the Yezidis either did not
have an important textual tradition (Badger 1852 I, p.╯115), or that
their sacred books were hidden (Layard 1853, p.╯89). Occasional
reference was in fact made in the community to mysterious holy
texts which were referred to by the names Meshefa Resh (Black
Book) and Jilwe (Ar. jelwa, Illumination), but for some decades no
copies of these works were found. Then, in the late 1880s, a series
of manuscripts began to be offered for sale to Western travelers
whose contents included two short texts with the titles Jilwe and
Meshefa Resh. By the early twentieth century, at least half a dozen
such manuscripts had come to light. Curiously, these early versions
of the “Sacred Books” were written in Arabic rather than Kurdish;
later, in 1911, the Carmelite Father Anastase Marie announced his
discovery of what he claimed to be the original Kurdish versions of
the texts. A German translation of Anastase’s text was published
two years later (Bittner 1913). For a time, it was assumed that the
new discoveries did indeed represent an ancient scriptural tradition.
However, a few years later Alphonse Mingana, a Christian scholar
from the Zakho area who claimed to know the Yezidis well, con-
vincingly challenged the authenticity of these works as representa-
tives of an ancient manuscript tradition. In view of later discoveries
and insights, it now seems clear that these “Sacred Books” were
indeed forgeries, although their contents suggest that their author
had considerable knowledge of authentic Yezidi traditions.10
More than half a century later the question of the religious tex-
tual tradition of Yezidism surfaced again. The first step in this pro-
cess was that members of the Yezidi community began to commit
their sacred texts to writing. In 1978, O. and J. Jalil published some
Qewls as part of their work on Kurdish folklore. The following
year saw the publication, in Iraq, of Silêman and Jindy’s Êzdiyatî,
which focused entirely on religious poetic texts (Qewls, Beyts, and
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On the other hand, it cannot be assumed that the mainly oral char-
acter of a tradition implies that writing plays no role there at all.
Yezidis in the West, it seems, increasingly tend to think of the
Qewls as parts of a Canon, a well-defined authoritative codex of
sacred texts similar in status to the Scriptures of other religions.
As the nature and functions of the original tradition were in reality
quite different, this can lead to misunderstandings. Similarly, the
editors of several collections of Ahlâ•‚e Haqq Kalâms (e.g. Suri 1965,
pp.╯16–19; Safizâde 1996, p.╯20; cf. Mokri 1967, p.╯3) have claimed
that their works go back to the Ketâb-e Saranjâm (sometimes given
the alternative title Kalâm-e Khazâne),12 which is described as the
central and most authoritative collection of Kalâms. The under-
lying assumption seems to be that such texts, whether they are
known from oral tradition or from late manuscripts, are all parts
or versions of a single, original, sacred book. In view of the dis-
similarities between the collections themselves, and the discrepan-
cies between the various claims about the nature and composition
of the original Ketâb-e Saranjâm, the existence of such an original
codex seems doubtful. It seems more likely that parts of a fluid
oral tradition of religious poetry (which may already have been
grouped into collections of texts felt to be connected with a par-
ticular stage or event of sacred history), were first committed to
writing for private purposes, and later used by researchers intent
on reconstituting an ancient codex which may never have existed.
On the other hand, the names Saranjâm and Khazâne are used
too consistently in the Ahlâ•‚e Haqq tradition to be dismissed as
fabrications. It seems likely that many community members be-
lieved in the existence of a sacred text bearing such a name, which
was generally thought of as a book.
The Yezidi tradition may throw some light on this state of affairs.
As was noted earlier, although the alleged “Sacred Books” known
by the titles Jilwe and Meshefa Resh can safely be regarded as forg-
eries, the names themselves were mentioned as titles of Yezidi reli-
gious texts in what appear to be reliable sources (see �Kreyenbroek
12 So Safizâde 1965, p.╯20; Elahi 1987, p.╯162. On the Kalâm-e Khazâne see
also Mokri 1967, p.╯3.
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Chapter 4
Pashto Literature:
The Classical Period
Sergei Andreyev
Pashtuns reside mainly to the north and south of the Durand line
that now forms the Afghan-Pakistani border. Their numbers are es-
timated at twenty-three million people, and their language, Pashto/
Pakhto (Paśto) belongs to the Eastern Iranian family of languages.
The Pashtuns were gradually Islamized over the period of five cen-
turies from the tenth century ce onwards. The majority of them
are Hanafi Sunnis, while there are also a few Shi’ite tribes. They
are a tribal people with a complex hierarchy composed of unions of
tribes, separate tribes, clans and households. Usually they are po-
litically disunited, and even in a state of feud with each other over,
as they themselves admit, “women, gold and land,” or as some an-
thropologists argue, matters of tribal and personal honor. Despite
this constant warfare, the Pashtuns possess some sense of unity
based on their common language, origin, customs and concepts.
1 Given the differences between two main dialects of Pashto, viz. Western and
Eastern or Kandahari and Peshawari, and the multitude of local variations,
terms for poetical genres can vary from one place to another. Thus the lanḏəy
(< lanḏ “short”) in the Western dialect is called ṯapa or misrəy in the East.
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Well in line with the old Iranian minstrel tradition, popular Pa-
shto poetry is often sung, rather than read, during special events
called tang takor (musical evening).2
Apart from using their own folk genres Pashtuns also adopted clas-
sical forms of Arabo-Persian literature, albeit with some modification.
Thus alongside classical ghazal (often called loba) with two introduc-
tory lines and the rhyme aa-ba-ca-da, there also exists a specific Pa-
shto ghazal with different rhyme-schemes (Mac�Kenzie 1958, p.╯320;
Dvoriankov 1973, pp.╯47–50). The most popular rhyme-schemes in
Pashto are 8, 12, 14, 15 and 16-syllables with possible apocope varia-
tions (for more details on Pashto rhyme see Pelevin 2001, pp.╯211–15).
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4 This is rowshâni in Persian and rawśâni in Pashto. Sine both Persian and
�
Pashto sources on the movement exist, the spellings “Rowshani” and
“Rowshaniyya” will be used here.
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Pashto Literature: The Classical Period
5 The use of the word hâdi seems to be a narrative device enabling the author
to quote popular pious sayings.
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Arabic and an Indian language. It seems that this view was based on
a paragraph of the famous Dabestân-e madhâheb, an “Encyclope-
dia of Religions,” which states: “… and this [Kheyr al-bayân] is in
four languages (be chahâr zabân): the first in Arabic, the second in
Persian, the third in an Indian language (hendi), the fourth in Pash-
to… the same subject is conveyed in [the] four languages” (Mowbad
Keykhosrow 1983, p.╯283). Besides, Bâyazid Ansâri himself wrote
“I [God] shall reveal the Kheyr al-bayân to you, through my power,
in four languages” (Bâyazid Ansâri 1967, p.╯17). However, when
the Berlin Pashto manuscript dated 1061/1651 was rediscovered in
1959, it was assumed that the book as a whole was initially written
in Pashto with some insertions in Arabic and Persian, whereas the
first eight pages had been in Arabic, Persian, Pashto, and an Indian
language, in that order (MacKenzie 1964). Indeed, only the first
pages of the introductory part of this manuscript are written in
four languages. The same subject is conveyed repeatedly, passage
by passage, first in Arabic, then in Persian, Pashto, and an uniden-
tified Indian language (just over a hundred words). Qor’anic quo-
tations following each version often differ from each other. The
multilingual versions continue as far as fol. 8 of the manuscript,
before the second quotation of the standard formula, besme’llâh.
Thereafter the narration is entirely in Pashto, with some Arabic
quotations and their Persian translation.
However, in the early 1980s the Afghan scholar Zalmay Hêwâd-
mal discovered another manuscript of the Kheyr al-bayân in the
library of the Salarjang Museum in Hyderabad. In this manuscript
(dating from 1079/1668), the entire text is given in all four lan-
guages, and without an interchange of the languages. All versions
except the Persian one are vocalized (Hêwâdmal 1984, pp.╯9 –10).
Furthermore, S. A. A. Rizvi (1966–68, pp.╯93, 97) reports on the
existence of a Persian translation of the Kheyr al-bayân which is
kept in the Riza Library in Rampur. It is written in simple Persian
and the sentences are occasionally incomplete and unintelligible. It
is not clear whether this manuscript represents the Persian portion
of the book or a translation.
At first glance, the fact that the Kheyr al-bayân was conveyed in
all four languages may contradict the Rowshani assertion that the
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Pashto Literature: The Classical Period
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Pashto Literature: The Classical Period
7 Pace Blumhardt and MacKenzie (1965, p.╯59), who claim that it consists of
49 “odes” (qaside).
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8 Darwêza 1892, p.╯149. *rəmâ is probably a mistake for ramâ’ (excess, addi-
tion, increase, usury).
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�
languages. Therefore, just as the Arabic-speaking Mohammad was
a prophet to the Arabs, Bâyazid Ansâri was considered an all-im-
portant spiritual guide to the Pashtuns. As was mentioned earlier,
the founder of the Rowshani movement was not himself a Pashtun.
He belonged to a family known as Ansâr (i.e. held to be descended
from a Companion of the Prophet Mohammad), residing with the
Ormur people. However, as often happens to charismatic leaders,
he was not welcomed in his native community and eventually was
forced to look for refuge among the Pashtuns, where he began to
put his teaching into written shape.
Bâyazid Ansâri wrote in Arabic and Persian as well as Pashto.
Sometimes, he wrote with his intended audience in mind, as in the
case of Serât al-towhid, which was written especially for the Em-
peror Akbar. Like many other Muslim thinkers, at times he simply
followed the well-established tradition of writing in Arabic and
Persian, the languages of theology and high culture. However, the
fact that he found it necessary to write his most important work,
the Kheyr al-bayân, in Pashto appears to be of the utmost impor-
tance for understanding the nature of the Rowshani movement, as
well as for the future development of the Pashtun culture.
After the military defeat of the movement in the 1630s, the Row-
shaniyya disappeared as a political force and a significant religious
factor in Pashtun life (see Andreyev 1994); its cultural heritage, how-
ever, outlived the movement’s political and ideological influence.
Âkhund Darwêza
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9 In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the era of the spread of popular
Sufism in the region, affiliation to a particular Sufi master became more sig-
nificant than membership of a brotherhood. Since Sufi guides became po-
litical figures and witch-doctors, affiliation to a number of Sufi authorities
became possible. For more educated men, Sufi affiliation became a formal-
ity which was necessary for the improvement of their social status. Thus,
despite his Sufi connections, Âkhund Darwêza was first and foremost a
legalistic âlem who displayed no Sufi ideas in his writings.
10 However, the Pashtuns’ attitude towards Âkhund Darwêza was not un-
critical. Khoshhâl Khan Khattak, himself an orthodox Sunni Muslim, re-
proached the Yusufzays in his poem Swât-nâma for their veneration of Âk-
hund Darwêza, whom he regarded as a modest authority who gained fame
only because of the low level of contemporary scholarship. Khoshhâl Khan
also criticized Darwêza’s style for lack of literary skills.
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Pashto Literature: The Classical Period
However, he could not rest in peace; his relatives, and even his own
son Bahrâm, tried to kill him, as they were afraid of the elderly chief’s
influence on his tribesmen. Khoshhâl Khan was forced to leave his
country and died in the land of the friendly tribe of Afridi.
Besides his military fame, Khoshhâl Khan is known to every
Pashtun for his literary work. According to the Pashtun tradition
he wrote 350 books, besides poems included in his Divân. The fig-
ure is no doubt an exaggeration. Nevertheless, he is the author of
numerous works, both in Persian and Pashto, on a wide range of
subjects such as war and statecraft, medicine, divination, falconry,
house-building, childrearing, theology and ethics. He left an ac-
count of his checkered life and his family history as well as some
translations from Arabic. In his poems, Khoshhâl Khan (like the
Rowshani poet Mirzâ Khan Ansâri before him) adapted the nat-
ural meters of popular Pashto songs to the verse forms inherited
from Persian. His meter is still syllabic, but the rhythm is created
by stress, which is not fixed in Pashto. The stress usually recurs
on every fourth syllable (MacKenzie 1958, pp.╯319–20; 1965, p.╯13).
Although Khoshhâl Khan tried to imitate classical Persian poetry,
he could not compete with the great Persian poets in poetical mas-
tery and depth of thought. His poetry is courageous, harsh and
straightforward. As a proud and warlike Pashtun, he is quite dis-
tinct from the sophisticated and elegant Persian poets.
Khoshhâl Khan wrote consciously as a national poet, the first to
express nationalist sentiment for uniting all Pashtuns. Motivated by
a strong desire to liberate his fellow countrymen from the Mughals,
he used his poetical gift as a weapon in the political and military
struggle. In his Divân, Khoshhâl Khan covers all the subjects that
preoccupied him during his long and active life. He wrote about
religious problems, national hopes, personal ambitions and failures,
erotic experience, and everyday business.
Some of Khoshhâl Khan’s verses are devoted to the refutation
of the Rowshani “heresy” and praise of the “piety” of the move-
ment’s opponents, as well as to the description of the way of life
of the tribes associated with the Rowshaniyya. Khoshhâl Khan’s
�description of the social conditions of these tribes and their expul-
sion of traditional Muslim ulema constitutes unique information
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Pashto Literature: The Classical Period
3. Prose writing
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112
Pashto Literature: The Classical Period
4. Conclusion
113
Chapter 5
Leonard N. Bartlotti
1. Introduction
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Modern Pashto Written Literature
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Modern Pashto Written Literature
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Modern Pashto Written Literature
teen schools in 1930) were dependent upon the government for em-
ployment as bureaucrats, officials and teachers; by 1940, “the major-
ity of the individuals devoted to intellectual pursuits were salaried
functionaries of the state” (Ghani 1988, p.╯442). Years later, poets
and literati like Abd-al-Rahmân Pazhwâk, Abd-al-Ra’uf Bênawâ,
Khalilollâh Khalili, and others were to become the ambassadors,
state ministers, and presidents representing and leading the modern
Afghan state (Wilson 1969, pp.╯92–93). This connection between
state and literati, politics and culture, is a leitmotiv in modern Af-
ghan intellectual history and can be viewed as an extension of the
traditional nexus between literati and the Afghan court.
A new development emerged in 1930 when King Nâder Shah
established the twelve member intellectual circle called the An-
joman-e Adabi (Literary Society; Wilson 1969, p.╯88). The Soci-
ety sponsored poetry readings and started the literary Revue de
Kabul which published the work of their leader and poet laureate,
Â�Abdollâh Khan Qâri (1871–1943), who wrote patriotic and roman-
tic (Persian) poetry; Abd-al-Hâdi Dâwi; and Khalilollâh Khalili
(b. 1909); short stories and the novel were introduced in translated
(not creative) prose forms (cf. Farhadi 1985). However, in 1935 the
Literary Society established a separate department for the develop-
ment of Pashto language and literature; in 1937 the two sections re-
joined to become the Paśto Ṯoləna (Pashto Academy). The increas-
ingly Pashtunized Revue de Kabul later became the Pashto literary
journal Kabul, which was “the prime source and great stimulus to
Â�Pashtu literature in the country” (Wilson 1969, pp.╯89, 95).
Though the elite traditionally spoke Dari Persian, and a number
of writers wrote in both languages, the growth of Afghan nation-
alism, and thus of modernization, was linked to efforts to raise
the status of Pashto, “the Afghan language.” The Paśto Ma’raka
(Committee for Pashto) formed in 1922, under the direction of
Abd-al-Wasiya Qandahâri with a view to the promotion of Pashto
(cf. Dvoryankov 1966, p.╯212; Habibi 1968, p.╯56). Tarzi argued that
Pashto must be taught to and learned by all the non-Afghan ethnic
groups: “Islam, Afghan history and Pashto,” he felt were the “ma-
trices from which the ethnic mosaic that constituted Afghanistan
could grow and progress as one” (Gregorian 1967, p.╯362). As Â�Pashto
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Eastern Pashto
Among the Pashtuns of the urban and settled areas of the NWFP
in the 1920s, a “Pashto Movement” arose which emphasized Pashto
as a symbol of Pakhtun identity (Rahman 1996, p.╯135). The emer-
gence of literary movements was tied to a rising sense of Pakhtun
ethno-nationalism, and to the independence movement from Brit-
ish colonial rule in the Indian Subcontinent. One of the first liter-
ary-cum-reform societies to be formed, and a convenient historical
marker of the early modern literary movement in the NWFP, was
the Anjoman-e Eslâḥ al-Afghâna (Society for the Improvement of
the Afghans), founded in 1923 in Utmanzai, Charsadda. Through
this society and its writers, the new genre of essay, short story,
novel and drama were introduced to eastern Pashtun areas. The
movement is represented by figures like Fazl Mahmud Mâfi, Qâzi
Rahimollâh, Sayyed Rasul Rasâ, Mir Hâsib Gol Kâkâkhêl (who
translated Urdu novels into Pashto), Amir Hamza Khan Shinwâri,
Sayyed Rahat Zakhêli, and others.2 (Though not in the category of
socially-inspired prose, also worthy of mention in this period are
Monshi Ahmad Jan’s collections of parables and short stories, Də
qesakhwanəy gap [The Storyteller’s Words], and Də hagha dagha
[Odds and Ends], which reflect the traditional oral form; and the
development of Pashto chapbooks, which represents a written
literature for the non-elite made possible by the introduction of
European printing technology; cf. Hanaway and Nasir 1996). The
intellectuals and poets of the literary circle were motivated by a
desire to counter social evils, superstition, backwardness, the mis-
interpretation of religious doctrines, etc., and sought to educate
the people through literature. The socially inspired poetry of this
movement was expressed in the form of âzâd naẓm (free verse),
which in style and content was a new genre, quite in contrast with
the fixed patterns of classical poetry. In subject matter, they fo-
cused on topics new to Pashto poetry, like materialism, freedom,
slavery, social issues, the role of the mullah, and superstitions, sub-
2 For a more extensive listing of writers in this region and period, see Afridi,
Hamza Shinwari, pp.╯329–31.
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jects not treated openly prior to this movement. Through the An-
joman, literature came to be viewed less as a romantic, individual-
istic (zâti) and metaphysical expression, and more as a purposeful
(maqsadi) pursuit; that is, literature for the sake of life, to deal with
the problems of daily life and society (e.g. communal unity), and
contemporary existential or philosophical issues (e.g. patriotism,
freedom).3
In the politically charged environment of the freedom move-
ment, in which journalists, poets, and literati played a key role,
Pashto journalism and writing surged. The progressive movement
in the Subcontinent, inspired by socialist ends, viewed literature
less as a source of entertainment for the elite, than as a tool for the
depiction of evil and enlightened change among the masses. Writ-
ers protested social injustices and exploitation by the British, as
well as by wealthy, landowning Khans, Maliks, Chaudhris and
Waderas (feudal landlords). Humorous, satirical political dramas
like Abd-al-Akbar Khan Akbar’s “Three Orphans” (Drê yatimân),
Qâzi Rahimollâh of Abdarra’s “The New Light” (Nəwê rośni), and
Amir Nawâs Khan Jalyâ’s “Pain” (Dard), and other dramas staged
between 1924 and 1930, played an important role in Khan Abd-al-
Ghaffâr Khan’s Khodây Khedmatgar (Servants of God) movement,
criticizing social evils like the atrocities perpetrated by feudal land-
lords on their poor tenants.4 In 1935, the first Pashto radio drama
“The Cup of Blood” (Də wino jâm; of contested authorship), was
broadcast to a rousing reception, inspiring further development
of that genre by such notables as Amir Hamza Khan Shinwari,
Abd-al-Karim Mazlum, Samandar Khan Samandar, and Sayyed
Rasul Rasâ, and laying the foundation for later television dramas
and films in Pashto.5 Urdu newspapers (Angar Afghân, Jâmi’at-e
Sarhad, Shahbâz) and the English Khyber Mail at the time began
3 Raj Wali Shah Khattak, personal interview with the author, March 4, 1999.
4 “Amir Hamza Khan Shinwari as a Playwright,” Frontier Post, The Week-
end Post, November 20, 1998.
5 Names associated with authorship of this groundbreaking drama include
Muhammad Aslam Khan Khattak, Abd-al-Karim Mazlum, and Sayyed
Bahadur Shah Zafar Kaka Khel. “Amir Hamza Khan Shinwari as a Play-
wright,” Frontier Post, The Weekend Post, November 20, 1998.
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6 Raj Wali Shah Khattak, personal interview with the author, March 4, 1999.
See also Afridi, Amir Hamza Khan Shinwari: Life and Works (Peshawar,
1990), pp.╯356–57.
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poet in Islamic society, who was the wise Muslim, court counselor,
and revered teacher (Wilson 1969, p.╯92). In both cases, literary art-
istry tends to draw upon a reservoir of shared images and cultural
meanings to embody or to contest traditional values, beliefs and
emotions associated with religion, honor, relationships, and social
problems. Not as socially liminal as, and certainly far more re-
spected than musicians, in some ways poets and writers represent,
in their persons and work, the ambiguities and irresolvable ten-
sions which lie at the heart of tribal society between heritage and
egalitarian communalism on the one hand, and autonomy (â•›ghey-
rat) and self-defining expressiveness on the other.
This polarity is represented by two other widely respected
and representative figures in modern Pashto written literature,
Amir Hamza Khan Shinwari (1907–94), and Abd-al-Ghâni Khan
(1913–96).7 Each in his own way, to use Majrooh’s (1980, p.╯72)
phrase, stands “inside the limits of sameness” regulated by Pash-
tun custom and tradition, while like other intellectuals, “step(s)
over the boundaries of sameness” and challenges them afresh. The
first is idealized as a humble faqir, a “Pashtun Sufi,” the other an
endearing renaissance iconoclast.
Amir Hamza Khan Shinwari has been given the title “Father
of Pashto ghazal” (Bâbâ-e Ghazalâ•›) for having “Pashtunized” and
breathed new life into classical literary forms like the ghazal, robâ’i,
and chârbeyta.8 The non-indigenous (Arabic, Persian) ghazal is tra-
ditionally written according to strict norms of rhyme and meter,
and deals with subjective and aesthetic themes (dâkhiliyat), most
notably represented in classical Pashto by Abd-al-Rahmân Bâbâ
(1651–1710), and Abd-al-Hamid (1667–1732). In the view of mod-
ern Pashtun literary critics, Hamza Shinwari, however, removed
the Pashto ghazal and other forms from the shadow of Persian and
its imagery, and introduced a new style in which the terminology
and symbolism, notions of beauty and life, and Zeitgeist were rec-
ognizably Pashtun.9 A subjective and mystic poet in the tradition
7 For the life and work of Hamza Shinwari see Afridi, Hamza Shinwari.
8 Afridi, Hamza Shinwari, pp.╯6 , 257–67.
9 Raj Wali Shah Khattak, personal interview with the author, March 4, 1999. For
a discussion of these views see Afridi, Hamza Shinwari, pp.╯245–57, 295–99.
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tion; waiting and hope; the garden and Spring; flower and night-
ingale). Other works include a novel, Nəwê Chapê (New Waves;
1957), revolving around the theme of Pashtun unity; Nəway Paśtun
(The New Pakhtun; 1957), a controversial travelogue (safar-nâma)
about his trip to Afghanistan; Zhwand aw Yun (The Cycle of Life;
1977), a mathnavi (a poem in couplet form) about human life; sto-
ries, essays, and a number of prose writings regarding Sufism (Af-
ridi 1990, pp.╯158–59, 331–48). In his poetry, he makes plentiful
use of Pashto idiomatic vocabulary, phrases and proverbs. Hamza
is also famous as a dramatist, having written the script, dialogue
and songs for many plays and films, including the first Pashto film
Leylâ Majnun (1941). His film songs became so popular that they
were sung by the folk in hojras (guest houses) as well as by profes-
sional musicians; the delicate love poem, Jongara (The Hut), has
been recorded by both Pakistani and Afghan singers, and broad-
cast on Radio Kabul.11
Abd-al-Ghâni Khan, son of the famed “Frontier Ghandi” and
Pashtun nationalist, Abd-al-Ghaffâr Khan (see below), is perhaps
the most popular and well-known of modern Pashto poets. A writ-
er and artist as well as a poet, who studied in America and trained
in engineering, “Ghâni” is proudly represented by Pashtuns as a
kind of renaissance man, and fondly nicknamed lêwańay falsefa
(crazy philosopher). A religious and political iconoclast, he indicts
hypocrisy and those who misuse religion or compromise Pashtun
identity and values in the interests of power. His irreverent criti-
cism of mullahs and panegyrics to wine, beauty and the pleasures
as well as sorrows of life, made him popular with a younger gen-
eration of Pashtun Muslims and an object of criticism by pietists,
particularly some Afghans who associate him with the socialist
political philosophy of his father.
In 1928, Ghaffâr Khan began publishing the first journal in
the Pashto language, Paśtun; the journal was banned in 1930, and
published sporadically thereafter until permanently banned by the
Pakistan Government in 1947 (Tendulkar 1967, pp.╯50–55). Paśtun
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saw itself as the voice of the Pashtun people on both sides of the bor-
der. One aspect of this ethno-nationalistic agenda was a concerted
effort to “nurture and develop the Pakhtu language” in the face
of its neglect by its own people, and the criticism of “the mullahs
[who] propagated that Pakhtu was the language of hell, spoken by
the people in hell” (Tendulkar 1967, p.╯50). Paśtun carried articles
on social and political topics, short stories, and poems composed
by readers (both male and female), and featured the poetry of the
young Ghâni Khan. Ghâni’s poems gave voice to the national aspi-
rations of the Pashtuns with tender but powerful language reflect-
ing Pashtun values and sentiments. The following verses graced the
title pages of Paśtun (Tendulkar 1967, p.╯51):
If I, a slave, lie buried in a grave, under a resplendent tomb-stone,
Respect it not, spit on it.
When I die, and not lie bathed in martyr’s blood,
None should his tongue pollute, offering prayers for me.
Mother, with what face will you wail for me,
If I am not torn to pieces by British guns?
Either I turn this wretched land of mine into a garden of Eden
Or I wipe out the lanes and homes of Pakhtuns!
Writers like Ghâni Khan, Ajmal Khattak, Sayyed Rasul Rasâ, Qa-
landar Mohmand and others use modern style and forms to address
contemporary issues. But their social realism, while influenced by
new ideas from English and Urdu literature, stands in a tradition
of social commentary and politico-literary leadership that may be
viewed as rooted in the vigorous aesthetics of the classical Pashtun
warrior-poet Khushhâl Khan Khattak.
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Literary-cum-cultural organizations
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Chapter 6
Wilma Heston
1. Introduction
Pashto oral and popular literature at the end of the twentieth cen-
tury is the product of a culture that exists today in two countries,
Pakistan and Afghanistan.1 The current border between Afghan-
istan and Pakistan was demarcated only in 1893 by the Durand
Line formulated in a treaty between the British, who were ruling
India, and Abd-al-Rahmân, who was then ruling Afghanistan. On
the British side of the Durand line, the North-West Frontier Prov-
ince (NWFP) was established in 1901. Within the territories bor-
dering Afghanistan, tribal agencies were established where tribal
law prevailed, contrasting with the settled areas of Pashto speakers
where British law prevailed. Pakistan has continued this separa-
tion of Pashto-speaking areas into tribal and settled areas since its
independence in 1947. For the tribal areas of former British India
1 In this chapter, “Pashtun” is used for a speaker of Pashto; the spelling as
Pakhto and Pakhtun for the languages and its speakers, respectively, re-
flects the “hard” dialects of Pashto; for other spellings and a map of dialect
distributions, see Henderson 1983. Another term often used in English and
Hindustani is “Pathan,” which Urdu dictionaries also define as ‘soldier,’ a
common nineteenth century occupation of Pashtuns. “Afghan” was and
sometimes still is used in Pakistan for Pashto speakers, regardless of the
speaker’s present-day nationality. The numbers preceded by HR1, HR2,
and H&N refer to entries in the two bibliÂ�ographies of Rafī’ (1975 and
1978/9) and the bibliography of Hanaway and Nasir (1996) included in this
chapter’s References; WWH refers to chapbooks in W. Heston’s personal
collection.
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2. Before 1950
Among the early travelers to make use of Pashtun folktales was
Charles Masson (1848), the “English deserter … [and] long-time
resident of Kabul” (Lindholm 1996, p.╯8), whose poems draw on
legends of specified localities. The first four and the last of his
thirteen stories are from regions that are not now predominantly
Â�Pashto-speaking, but the remainder are from the Saharawân moun-
tains in northern (Pakistani) Baluchistan, Lus (also in northern
Baluchistan), Kandahar, the Turnek river valley between Kandahar
and Ghazne, Kabuli Kohistân, Bâmiyân, Loghmân, the Siyâhposh
hills of eastern Afghanistan, Jalâlâbâd, and the Khyber Pass. In
the introduction to each poem, Masson comments on the extent to
which he feels he has reproduced the original tale; although he does
not specify the language in which he heard these tales, they do
represent an early Western impression of folktales in the Pashto-
speaking regions.
Another folktale collection made in the context of a description
of the area is by S.â•›S. Thorburn (1878) of the India Civil Service,
who was stationed in Bannu District. His book includes one chap-
ter of Popular Stories, Marwat (a Pashtun tribe) Ballads and Rid-
dles, and another chapter with Proverbs in English translation and
comments, followed by a chapter with the same Pashto proverbs in
Pashto script. Thorburn (p.╯172) describes briefly the professional
storytellers (ḏums), whether itinerant or in the service of a particu-
lar chief, as well as the latter’s services as tribal genealogists and
historiographers in verse. In addition, Pashtun tales include “the
Akhoond’s dreamy moral narratives (a Moslem cleric with teach-
ing duties in an Islamic school) and the wandering ḏum’s elabo-
rate anecdotes, gorgeous with princes and princesses, fairies and
demons, down to the roaring fun of the village wit, who strings
half a dozen old jokes and stories together …” Thorburn’s fifty
translated and condensed tales were chosen because they were “the
shortest and apparently the most original” which find favor with
“the poorest and most ignorant of the peasantry.” He organizes his
tales into three categories: Humorous and Moral, Comic and Jocu-
lar, and Fables. Many tales have Islamic overtones involving, for
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mesrâ’, the folk ghazal and the chârbeyta that he translates as “bal-
lade” because of its stanzaic form; he also includes a selection in
rhyming couplets (mathnavi) used for a description of Swat. Small
samples of lullabies, funeral prayers and chants as well as riddles
and sixty proverbs complete his collection.
Darmesteter divides the subject matter of his selections into
historical songs, religious songs and legends, romances, and love
songs, all of which continued to provide subject matter for folk
poetry in the last decades of the twentieth century. In addition to
the verse selections, a few passages in prose are also included, such
as a short prose summary contextualizing the ghazal about Alex-
ander and Loqman. The romances to which the ghazals refer are
Âdam Khan and Dur Khânəy, Fath Khan of Kandahar, Jalat (Jalad)
and Mahbuba, Farhâd (corrupted to “faqir”) and Shirin (the “prin-
cess”), ‘Nimbollâ,’ and a ghazal about wondrous sea animals. The
historical songs are mainly military: a ghazal about the 1776 battle
of Ahmad Shah with the Mahrattas; a set of five chârbeytas about
Sayyed Ahmad (1826–31); six chârbeytas, one ghazal, some mesrâ’s
and a mathnavi about the 1863 Ambela campaign; and eleven châr-
beytas and two ghazals about the (Second Anglo-) Afghan war of
1879–81. The religious songs as well as the love songs include both
ghazals and chârbeytas.
Entries in the British Museum Library and the India Office Li-
brary catalogues attest to nineteenth-century Pashto chapbook
printings in Lahore and Delhi. No thorough study has yet been
done in Pashto of the magnitude of chapbook publications, but
the general appeal of chapbooks in the South Asian Subcontinent
can perhaps be judged by Pritchett’s (1985) documentation of the
popularity of certain Urdu tales first printed in the late nineteenth
century.
Among the nineteenth-century Pashto poets, at least four have
continued to have their tales reprinted into the last decades of the
twentieth century. Perhaps the most prolific of these was Ne’mat-
Allâh, who has been called the Ferdowsi of Pashto (Reśtin 1946,
p.╯112). Three of his romances, Fath Khân Qandahâri, Shirin o Far-
hâd, and the Nimbollâ mentioned by Darmesteter, were printed in
Delhi between 1883 and 1888; at least three editions of his Hâtem
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3. After 1950
In the Pashto-speaking areas of British India, reprintings of Pash-
to chapbooks from the nineteenth century into the late twentieth
century attest to continued audiences for folk literature, as does
anecdotal evidence of its performance in public places such as fairs
and markets (e.g., Khattak 2005, pp.╯31–32); major studies of folk
literature for the first half of the 20th century are not yet available.
The printing of pro-independence folk poetry was generally sup-
pressed by the British; however, poetry promoting rights in Pash-
tun areas, especially that relating to the “Red-Shirts” led by Khan
Abdul Ghaffâr Khan, circulated in oral form and when composed
by major literary figures, eventually came into print.
For Afghanistan, the annotated bibliography of Nasir (2004),
organized sequentially in time, can be used to document the rather
sparse publication of Pashto folk literature prior to 1950 as well
as more numerous publications thereafter; it includes publications
from Baluchistan and others referring to particular regions within
Afghanistan, thus offering starting points for comparative studies
within the large Pashto-speaking area. The importance of oral but
unpublished folk poetry for mid-20th century Afghanistan is the
subject of a PhD dissertation by James Caron (forthcoming at the
University of Pennsylvania) on “Oral Poetry as Small Media Com-
munications, the Creation of a Pashtun Polity, and Ethno-nation-
alism: Eastern Afghanistan, 1930–1965.”
The second half of the twentieth century saw major political
and technological changes in the Pashto-speaking areas. Studies
of folk literature were done by different groups of people and for
different reasons; the quantity and variety of printed popular lit-
erature expanded as incomes increased; with post-WW II technol-
ogy, better transportation and communications systems developed
that influenced and were influenced by folk and popular culture.
In Afghanistan, the Paśto Ṯoləna, established in the 1920s, became
part of the Afghan Academy established in 1967 (Rahman 1996,
p.╯142); this in turn was absorbed into the Academy of Sciences of
Afghanistan. Most folk publications have been sponsored by the
Paśto Ṯoləna, or related sections of government organizations; the
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Bibliographies
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Pashto Oral and Popular Literature
Collections
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150
Pashto Oral and Popular Literature
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Studies
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books or tradition was for outsiders, but for insiders, the qessa
consisted “of personal experience tales or stories of local events”
(p.€30). She therefore focused her research on the dominant narra-
tive form among women, which was qessas “lamenting their own
experiences and life” (p.€31). In her chapter on the poetics and dis-
course of grief (gham), she looks at grief in the context of several
literary folk genres. Her appendices organize three women’s narra-
tives into lines representing the unfolding of their internal cultural
patterning; her lengthy bibliography provides background on Pa-
shtun society and especially the position of Pashtun women as well
as ethno-poetics of narratives. Using examples from cassettes and
chapbooks, Heston (1995) points to the comparative simplicity of
gendered imagery in Pashto folk poetry. Kâkar’s small collection
of women’s songs (cheghyân) comes from the Pashto-speaking ar-
eas of Baluchistan; he comments that the songs are known in some
dialects as angəy. In the nineteenth-century tradition of collecting
stories while gathering linguistic data, Septfonds (1994) includes a
version of Sayf-ol-Moluk from Afghanistan and Hallberg (1992)
includes Pashtuns’ descriptions of recent accidents which provide
possible comparison with the women’s recitations documented by
Grima (1992).
5. Mass Media
Chapbooks
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books of jokes (e.g., H&N 470, 478, 483), the well-traveled tales
about Mollâ Nasreddin (e.g., H&N 539, 672), and tales of “Mollâ
Two-onions” at the court of the Emperor Akbar (WWH 245).
Other prose chapbooks include single stories, such as Aladdin’s
Lamp, Ali Bâbâ and the Forty Thieves, Shaikh Chelli, and Shâhzâ-
da Shahryâr and Maleka Shâhzâd (H&N 536, 534, 543, 542), claim-
ing on their covers to be taken from the Thousand and One Nights.
Some prose chapbooks are retellings of traditional romances such
as Leylâ and Majnun (WWH 247) and Shirin and Farhâd (WWH
635). Many, however, are new tales, some by writers who write
only prose and others by writers who write both prose and verse.
The prolific chapbook writer, Shâker-Allâh Shâker, for example,
has narratives in prose: Shêrdel Dacoit, The Dacoit’s Father, Two
Brothers’ Longing, and An Honorable Wife (H&N 653, 648 645;
WWH 627), as well as in verse: The Red Litter’s (i.e. bride’s) Long-
ing (də srê ḏoləy armân), The Unfaithful Wife, Three Girls, A Cru-
el King, A Killer Bride, and Salve-Bandage (malham-patəy), with
verses including one qessa about Moses and one about the White
Snake Prince (spin-mâr shâhzâda) and the Queen of Sheba (H&N
646, 650; WWH 82, 629, 410, 637).
In verse, some chapbooks consist entirely of a single verse form.
A number of chapbooks consist entirely of ṯapas (e.g., H&N 503,
531, 636, 676, 677; WWH 606, 612). These are usually not the
anonymous, ordered ṯapa collections of the academies. Instead,
some are arranged by a topical word (i.e., shuńḏe, “lips,” spoźməy
“moonlight,” qalam “pen,” and kalêj “college”) occurring initially
or elsewhere in either the first or second hemistich (WWH 624),
while others are arranged in alphabetical order of first word but
include the name of the author (mosannef) in the last ṯapa of each
section (WWH 602), paralleling the use of a pen name in a literary
ghazal’s final couplet. The chapbook Felmi Tape (WWH 621) has
listings by the name of the film and the singer.
Chapbooks consisting only of chârbeytas are much less com-
mon; only one (H&N 663) is included in Hanaway and Nasir’s
bibliography as compared to its five chapbooks of ṯapas. Although
a few chapbooks consist entirely of ghazals in the literary style, the
majority of non-narrative chapbooks have a variety of verse forms:
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�
circulation was an increase of about 50â•›% over the preceding decade,
but a decrease in the percentage of total circulation (Pakistan Statisti-
cal Yearbook 1995, pp.╯371–72).
In Afghanistan, the press has historically been under govern-
ment control and without the resources or readership for women’s
or film magazines. Pourhadi (1976) lists over sixty newspapers,
magazines and journals together with dates of founding (1875
to 1966), place of publication (most often Kabul), language, fre-
quency of publication, and other comments on, for example, con-
tents and circulation. Regime changes before and during the Rus-
sian occupation, the emergence and control by the Taliban, and the
U.S.-led invasion of Afghanistan in 2001 have resulted in continued
shifts in newspaper publication. In the 21st century, the addition of
Internet technology has provided a variety online news service re-
lated in some cases to radio broadcasts from within Afghanistan and
outside (e.g., BBC and VOA). In addition, a variety of Pashto pub-
lications both current and past can be found online at sites such as
http://www.benawa.com/rasanay/.
Radio and TV
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Pashto folk poetry and songs are closely tied, as the use of sandərê
‘songs’ for collections of folk poetry indicates. Singers have been
transmitters of folk poetry, whether as amateurs in men’s guest-
houses (hojra), maintained by villages or wealthy khans, or as
professionals engaged for special occasions such as weddings and
circumcisions. The arrival on the Subcontinent of audiocassette
technology and relatively inexpensive tape players changed the
means of transmission for poetry, as Manuel (1993) has described
for north India. For Pashto songs, the variety of available audiocas-
sette recordings expanded rapidly during the 1980s with the most
popular verse forms being ghazals and badəlas. Cassette players
found a place in hojras along with, or instead of, the traditional
rabâbs and mangays (clay water-pots used for drums).
Certain singers have been particularly popular, and their tapes
have been circulated even in remote villages; the copying of exist-
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Pashto Oral and Popular Literature
6. Concluding comments
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166
Chapter 7
Balochi Literature
Josef Elfenbein1
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168
Balochi Literature
who patiently listened to ballad recitals and wrote down what they
heard (but not necessarily understood), that we have any informa-
tion at all about earlier literature.
The main written sources are collections by M.â•›L . Dames; Mo-
hammad Sardar Khan Baloch; Shêr Muhammad Marî; Elfenbein
1990 (mostly from written sources, but checked orally); Mâhtâk
Balôčî; Mîr ʿĪsâ Qômî (whose unparalleled manuscript library was
mainly collected by himself from oral recitations, shared with the
present writer during a long visit to him in Turbat in 1961); the pe-
riodicals Nôkên Dawr and Ulus have also occasionally published
short pieces; for a fuller list see Jahani (1989, pp.╯25–33, 229–30).
The literature of the classical and post-classical periods consists
entirely of ballads. Prose of a literary quality makes its appearance
only in the modern period. Before the twentieth century, hardly
any attempt was made by the Baloch themselves to write their lan-
guage; but after 1947 “Balochi Academies” sprang up in Pakistan,
societies whose purpose was to stimulate new writing and collect
the classical, so as to make the written word play a role in Balochi
society. The center of Balochi literary culture has always resided in
what is now Pakistan, particularly in Quetta and Karachi; nothing
of any lasting importance in this regard has ever emerged from
Iran. In Afghanistan after 1978 Balochi was accorded the status of
“national language” and some publications have appeared from Ka-
bul. (sporadic publications in the Gulf States and in East Africa by
emigrant Baloch communities are not included in this discussion).
Only variants of the Arabic script have ever come seriously into
question for native writing in Balochi. The first Balochi writing
was in the Pashto script, with the usual problems of vowel repre-
sentation. Dames and other Europeans used the modified Roman
script usually employed by Christian missionaries (mainly British)
in India; it is, in the main, quite acceptable. Geiger, of course, used
the scientific script employed by Iranists. There have been official
efforts in Pakistan, especially since 1960, to adopt a Roman script
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for Balochi, but they have come to nothing; the script used today
in Pakistan for Balochi is based on Urdu, whereas that adopted in
Afghanistan is based on Pashto.
There are six dialects in Balochi, of which two have long ago
achieved prestige status as vehicles for classical balladry: Coastal
dialect, and Eastern Hill Balochi, with some use of Kêčî.3 These
dialects have long exercised a strong influence on other dialects.
Co is relatively uniform over its whole area, but EHB has a num-
ber of widely varying sub-dialects; writing in it tends to be in the
variety used in the Marî-Bugṯî tribal area. Ke is without important
sub-dialects.
Here a word must be said about dialects in Balochi literary com-
position. Oral transmission over centuries by speakers of all dia-
lects has inevitably meant that dialects get mixed in transmission;
a sort of mixed dialect is used in nearly all ballads except those in
Co dialect, and balladry in EHB is strongly influenced by the Co
dialect as well. By general consent, Co is the proper dialect for clas-
sical and post-classical ballads, with EHB coming second. A tradi-
tion exists in which speakers of other dialects (now also) often try
to imitate the Co dialect in literary composition, even when they
do not know it well. The result is a peculiar mishmash, with false
Co dialect forms popping up in writings by speakers of other dia-
lects. Similarly, Ke is often the preferred dialect for literary prose,
with the same sorts of mixtures. Rakhšânî is by far the most widely
spoken dialect, but it is only in the modern period that it is used at
all for literary composition.
Eastern Hill Balochi is the dialect of all the publications of
Dames, since all of his reciters came from the territory in the ex-
treme east, British Baluchistan. It is also the native dialect of both
Shêr Muhammad Marî and of Muhammad Sardar Khan Baloch.
Mîr ʿĪsâ Qômî (hereafter Qômî) lived in Turbat and spoke Kêčî.
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Daptars
A good claim to being some of the oldest poetry handed down can
be made for the daptar šâʿirî “ballad of genealogy, register ballad.”
Although not many of these ballads have been preserved, they have
such a similarity of form and content, as well as the occasional
linguistic archaism, that they are particularly interesting. Only six
of them are known to me, all rather short; four of them have been
published:
i. LSI X, pp.╯370–73, of sixty lines. It is basically in Coastal
dialect, but very mixed with both Raxšânî and Persian (see
below).
ii. Barker and Mengal 1969 II, pp.╯273–77, also in Coastal dialect,
of seventy-two lines, of which only lines 22–64 are a daptar: a
Mullâ Šôrân (otherwise unknown) names himself in the poem
as the author.
iii. Barker and Mengal 1969 II, pp.╯266–67, of only nineteen lines,
basically Coastal, but recited by a Raxšânî speaker.
iv. Dames 1907 I, pp.╯1–3, of seventy-six lines in Eastern Hill Ba-
lochi, of which only lines 11–52 are a daptar. The last lines
53–76 concern the thirty-year War (see below). I have seen two
others in Qômî’s collection, unpublished; both are in Coastal
dialect and their content does not differ greatly from these.
The content of all these daptars is basically the same—the oldest
migrations of the Baloch tribes, which runs as follows. The Baloch
tribes rise up from their original home in Aleppo, all sons of “Mîr
Hamza” (generally taken to refer to the uncle of the prophet Mu-
hammad) to fight against the second Umayyad Caliph Yazid I at
Karbalâ’ in 680. After Hoseyn is slain, the angered Balochi tribes
wander away eastwards. It is clear that there is no real history in
this narrative: nothing is said about the journey from Aleppo to
Karbalâ, and there are no details of a Balochi battle engagement
there. It seems clear that the point is to assure the Baloch a good
Islamic pedigree.
Thence the Baloch tribes continue their migration eastwards.
The first places mentioned are Lâr and Rôdbâr: Lâr is, of course,
in southern Iran, but “Rôdbâr” can be anywhere. The next places,
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Mîr Ĵalâl Khan features in all ballads as the overall chief, be-
fore the division into the traditional bôlaks (tribes), but nothing is
otherwise known of him. There are traditionally five tribes: Rind,
Lâšârî, Hôt, Kôraî, and Ĵatôî, but the only two mentioned in the
early parts of the daptars are the Rind and Lâšârî, the largest. The
leaders mentioned are Jalâl Khân, Šayhak, Nôdbandag, and Čâkur.
All of these except perhaps the first are anachronisms, interpo-
lated from the sixteenth century. (Many individual lines from the
daptars are known to practically everybody, and it is easy to see
how famous names from a famous era could be inserted in what is
in effect a cultural heritage: a reciting bard simply put in a name
well-known to his audience.)
A quotation from part of a typical daptar may make these points
clearer. Here is a possible reconstruction of the badly bowdlerized
text given in LSI X. The text is based in part on the two other
similar versions I have seen (but detailed commentary cannot be
given here):
1. râĵâ ač halab zahr bîtant The tribes from Aleppo became angry
â rôč ki yazîd sar zîtant On the day that their heads were at-
tacked by Yazid
2. sultân šâh husayn kušta Sultan Shah Hoseyn was killed
râjân purr hasad bad burta The tribes, full of jealousy, bore it badly.
3. lâšâr mizzilê pêš kaptant The Lâšârî s advanced one stage (farther)
nôdbandag saxîên rapta Nôdbandag the Generous (went with
them)
4. šahaykk pa padâ-ê gôn kapta Šahayk went along after him
rôdbârê darâ êr-kaptan They descended beyond Rôdbâr
5. gwastant ač gîyâbên lârâ They passed by grassy Lar
dêm pa pahraî bâzârâ Facing the bazaar of Pahra
6. bampûrê darâ ganĵênân Beyond the boundaries of Bampûr …
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The meter is a steady eight-syllable line in three feet, with the stress
on the first syllable; the apparent extra syllable in couplet four is
eliminated by reading padâ-ê as two syllables. Rhyme is very ir-
regular, as expected in early verse. Archaisms are: râd; Makurân;
bâzâr ‘settlement with a market.’ In other daptars we have Sêîstân
as three syllables, nîδârâγ ‘resting place’ (now ‘stage in a theater’),
the phrase kêč râstên pallawâ-int, ‘Kêč is on the right side,’ i.e. to
the east, for marchers from Sistan.
It is not to be denied that, in the long transmission of these early
ballads, the principle of lectio facilior has played an important role,
making it very difficult to know how the ballads, if they are really
old, originally looked. Balochi is by nature an extremely conserva-
tive language, and a thousand years ago it cannot have looked very
different from what it is today: it is, for example, phonologically
older than the Pahlavi of the third century inscriptions.
Classical poetry
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a man from his tribe and make him an outlaw. This is a fruitful
source of much tragic balladry, for then a man must lose his grip
on his own identity and be lost forever. The origins of many tribes
are to be ascribed to criminal expulsions: the eponymous founder
of the tribe was expelled from another tribe.
Life is thus entirely conditioned by tribal law (riwâĵ), unwrit-
ten until Nasîr Khan had it written down (in Persian) in the eigh-
teenth century, but still all-powerful in classical times before then.
The customs described above, together with the following specific
duties prescribed by riwâĵ had always been deeply embedded in
Balochi society. These three main duties, “pillars of Balochi tribal
life” were:
i. ↜bâhôṯdâri “(custom of) asylum.” It is required to offer to any
person bâhôṯ (asylum) upon request, with no questions asked.
The person affording bâhôṯ is the bâhôṯdâr and may expose
himself to considerable personal risk; but in principle he may
not refuse it, and must aid and succor his bâhôṯ.
ii. ↜mihmândârî (hospitality), offered to guests, mainly travelers,
and lasts three days in principle. The mihmândâr (host) is of-
ten the tribal chief or his deputy.
iii. ↜bêrgirî (revenge-seeking) is mainly inter-tribal, but can also
be inter-familial. It is incumbent on all male tribal members,
and in its working it illustrates very clearly the “impersonal”
status of an individual member of a tribe. He is duty-bound
to seek revenge for slights, insults, or wrongs done to him, his
family, or even his tribe. As object of his revenge, anyone of
an “equivalent status” may serve, any “equivalent member”
i.e., a person of equivalent social status, of a family or tribe.
The duty of revenge-seeking may neither be questioned nor
avoided, and of course is the cause of many a tragedy when
individual needs and desires conflict with the impersonal duty
of a tribesman. The rule is thus “an eye for an eye, a tooth for
a tooth.” Adultery required the murder of both guilty parties;
forgiveness was not allowed.
A man who cares strictly for these things is “honorable” (nangdâr)
and “honor” (nang) is what makes life meaningful—without it
nothing is possible. One’s honor must be defended with one’s life,
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if necessary. Of such stuff were Balochi heroes made, and often the
Balochi hero is a tragic hero.
All collections of these “heroic cycles” are in the Pakistani
Coastal, Eastern Hill, or Kêčî dialects. As far as can be ascertained,
nothing in this category has been published in Afghanistan or
�elsewhere except for the brief specimens in Zarubin 1930, which
are in Raxšânî.4 The original dialect of this poetry was undoubt-
edly Coastal (“Rindî”), and it is to be noted that Eastern Hill Bal-
ochi is most closely related to that dialect.
Historical confirmation of the events described has proved very
difficult, but it has been possible to identify some proper names
(though not of the Baloch) and some places; the locations are all to
the east of Kêč in Pakistani Makrân, through Sibî and into West
Panjab. None of the events take place in Iran or Afghanistan.
4 In Afghanistan, Raxšânî is the officially approved dialect. For its early use
see Zarubin, “K izucheniu Beludzhskogo ïazyka i fol’klora.” Sarawânî and
Lâškârî are only spoken in Iran, and are not written.
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There was a rich young woman named Gôhar, of the Mahêrî sub-
tribe of the Lâšârî, and who perhaps lived near Bampûr (according
to one version; this cannot be right). She was courted by Gwaha-
râm, whose suit she spurned. There is a fair amount of unpublished
poetry containing an exchange of messages between the two; Gwa-
harâm sends love-messages, and Gôhar spurns them, apparently be-
cause of consanguinity (not usually a hindrance in �Balochi society,
where first-cousin marriage is quite usual). But in one unpublished
version of the affair, Gwaharâm already has four wives and refuses
to divorce one of them to make a place for Gôhar.
Gôhar, together with her camel herds, seeks refuge (bâhôṯdârî)
with Čâkur, who accepts her and undertakes her protection. In
most versions, Čâkur lives near Sibî. He himself begins to court
Gôhar, who for her part prefers him. There is a colorful exchange
of insults between Gwaharâm and Čâkur, the (unpublished) bal-
lads purporting to be the original compositions of each. It is finally
agreed to settle the matter by a horse race, to be run by Rêhân Rind
and Râmên Lâšâr, who also happened to be good friends. Both are
said to have composed ballads about the race, which turned out
to be a neck-and-neck affair. The Rind judges however award the
winner’s prize to Rêhân Rind, leaving Râmên furious. In his rage
he secretly organizes a few young Rind hotheads to raid and kill
some of Gôhar’s young camels.
Čâkur comes to know about the deaths of Gôhar’s camels and
is in his turn very angry. Gôhar tries to pacify him by telling him
that her young camels died a natural death, but Čâkur will have
none of it and determines on an all-out fight with Gwaharâm and
the Lâšârî. The likely outcome of such a struggle is foreseen by
Čâkur’s best friend and chief lieutenant Bîbarg, who seizes the rein
of Čâkur’s horse to restrain him. “We will not strike down the
whole realm for the sake of a woman’s camels.” Bîbarg is taunted
as a coward and lawbreaker by several young Rind heroes, and no
one listens to him.
The first battle is joined at the Nalî Defile (near Sibî). After
heavy losses on both sides (all descriptions of the actual fighting
are very brief) the Lâšârî are victorious, and Čâkur finds himself
standing alone, sword in hand, on the field of battle. He is saved by
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1909 (Part II no. X); Marri 1970 (Qôl Haywatâne, p.╯7↜f. 52 lines
[Elfenbein 1990, no. 62]; Baluch 1977, p.╯321↜f., 23 lines). The ac-
tors are variously named, but the oldest versions name Čâkur,
Haybat, Ĵâŕô, and Nôdbandag. Haybat and Ĵâŕô are common
to all versions known to the present writer. Haybat swears not
to return any camels that stray into his herds from elsewhere.
Some camels from Čâkur’s herd stray into Haybat’s. Čâkur
prepares to fight, but a conciliation is effected, and Čâkur al-
lows Haybat to keep the camels. (The clearest published ver-
sion is in Dames 1907, no. XII).
iii. Jâŕô, a Rind. One of the “oath-takers” (see above). His part
in this episode is given in Dames 1907, no. XIII; Elfenbein
1990 no. 60; ŠMM (Qôl Ĵâŕôê, p.╯15↜f., 36 lines); Baluch 1977
(pp.╯314–18, 11 couplets). Ĵâŕô, known as “the one of the sour
answer” (ĵawr ĵawâb), swears that he will kill anyone who
touches his beard, or who kills his friend Haddê. Čâkur in-
duces Ĵâŕô’s child’s nurse to get the child to touch his father’s
beard; the child is duly killed by his father. Čâkur later orga-
nizes a horse race, when Haddê touches Ĵâŕô’s beard; Haddê
is killed by Šâhô, Ĵâŕô’s nephew. Finally, Ĵâŕô kills Šâhô and
buries him together with Haddê in one grave. There are several
unpublished ballads relating all or parts of this story.
iv. Nôdbandag, a Lâšârî , one of the “oath-takers.” Known as “the
generous” (saxî) or the “gold scatterer” (zar zuwalâ•›), he was a
greatly admired personality, and there is a large ballad litera-
ture about him, a good part unpublished. Since his father was
a Lâšârî and his mother a Rind, he was to some extent plagued
by divided loyalties in the Rind-Lâšârî Wars. He rescues the
Rind chief Čâkur at the end of the first battle (see above) and
has to suffer taunts for his deed (one unpublished ballad of 50
lines gives more details of this incident than others do). Dames
1907, nos. XIII and XIV describe his oath to give all he pos-
sessed to anyone who asked for it, and never to touch money
with his hands. (Cf. also Elfenbein 1990, nos. 60 and 61). There
are also versions in ŠMM (Lôlî p.╯92↜f., 110 lines) and Baluch
1977 (p.╯224↜f., 31 couplets). Čâkur makes a hole in Nôdbandag’s
moneybag, and the coin in it falls out, but is not collected by
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The next most important cycle is certainly the Dôdâ Bâlâch Cycle,
which is probably to be dated in the eighteenth century, perhaps
1750 or later. The cycle is important for several reasons. Whilst
none of it can be assigned a definite historical niche, it is impressive
for its realism, and its often personal styles of narration make it
come very much alive. Some of the ballads are probably contem-
porary with the events described in them. The same transmission
problems obtain as in the Čâkur Cycle.
The lady Sammî and her husband, members of the Bulêdî tribe,
come as refugees to Dôdâ, overall chief of the Gôrgêĵ tribe, in the
Rind confederation. Sammî’s husband dies and, as often happens,
there is a disputed inheritance. Sammî withholds from her dead
husband’s heirs the part of the herds which are her own property,
which by riwâĵ she is entitled to do. Most versions then describe a
raid on her cattle by Mîr Bîbarg, a Bulêdî chief, which he dares to
do in broad daylight. While this takes place, Dôdâ lies asleep in the
sun and does nothing.
Dôdâ is rudely awakened by two women relatives, who tell him
what has happened. Dôdâ is very reluctant to undertake counter-
measures, but after taunts and jibes by a whole group of women,
who accuse him of cowardice and law-breaking, Dôdâ reluctantly
gathers together a small band of men and sallies forth to meet Bîbarg
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ii. ŠMM in EHB (pp.╯149, Bâhôṯ, 45 lines; p.╯151↜f., Huδâ čôn a-kant, Â�
103 lines; p.╯157↜f., Gôn baδân, 66 lines; p.╯163, Bašârat, 107 lines;
p.╯172↜f., Kôlanî balâ, 74 lines; p.╯176↜f., Abêd ža, 29 lines).
iii. Dames 1907, no. XVIII, in which Bâlâč himself appears to be
the poet (“Bâlâč sings”), three ballads are given, all in EHB
(no.€1, 45 lines; no. 2, 56 lines; no. 3, 48 lines).
iv. Elfenbein 1990, (no. 57, 27 lines; no. 58, 47 lines; no. 59, 67 lines,
mainly in Ra; but no. 59 in Ke).
v. Barker and Mengal 1969, II, (pp.╯288–92, 65 lines, in Ke from a
Ra reciter. For the content, see Elfenbein 1990, no. 59).
Hammal Ĵîhand
The many ballads about the struggles of Hammal Ĵîhand with the
Portuguese in the sixteenth century also form a cycle. Hammal
Ĵîhand, “Sultan of Kalmat” on the Makrân coast, was chief of the
Hôt tribe. Most of the ballads about him concern a final naval battle
with the Portuguese, which most likely took place some time after
1550. Nowhere is the Portuguese commander named, but if there
is a connection with the torching of the Makrân seaports Gwâdar
and Pasnî in 1581,7 Hammal might also have been concerned. Por-
tuguese archives have not been consulted, so that at present nothing
more definite can be said. The ballads describe land skirmishes and
naval engagements between the Portuguese and Baloch forces under
Hammal, during many years. In a final battle (the central event of
most ballads) Hammal was defeated and taken prisoner, and then
deported captive either to Goa or to Portugal (ballads differ). Ef-
forts to ransom him failed, and the Portuguese tried to persuade
him to settle and take a European wife. Hammal refused, finally dy-
ing in prison. There is said to be a local custom in Kalmat of women
mourning for Hammal by not washing their hair on Saturdays.
Some ballads describe in colorful detail the reasons for Ham-
mal’s refusal to take a European wife: it was mainly the “unclean”
customs of non-Muslim Europeans which revolted him. There is
a short extract about this cycle in Elfenbein 1990 (p.╯272), but it
7 In some versions Tîz is given for Pasnî.
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been settled in the Indus Valley. The latter were allied with Čâkur,
and an armed struggle ensued. The (unpublished) ballads narrate a
long and pitiless struggle, which only ended with a division of the
country, with Biĵĵar’s Rinds settling in the Derâjât, and the Dôdâîs
the area around Dera Ghazi Khan, where they were Nawabs until
the end of the eighteenth century.
Ballads
There exists a number of long ballads which could date from the
eighteenth century, mostly based on well-known Persian or Arabic
tales, such as Leylâ and Majnun, or Širin and Farhâd: these two
have been especially widely imitated in Balochi.
Extracts of a Balochi version of the tale Širin and Farhâd have been
published in Baluch 1977 (pp.╯508–15; 23 couplets), and assigned by
him to an anonymous poet of the seventeenth century, on unstated
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This also appears to be a purely Balochi tale (šêh < Arabic shaykh).
This is a very popular story, dating from the eighteenth century,
about which many ballads have been composed. (There are also
many modern versions.) Many of the older ballads have been
published, e.g. in Dames 1907, no. XXII; in ŠMM (pp.╯59–63,
103 lines, Durrdânaγên Hânî; pp.╯6 4–66, 60 lines, Ašiqê ganôx).
Baluch 1977 gives an especially good selection of five specimens
(pp.╯244–56, 26 couplets; pp.╯257–65, 30 couplets; pp.╯266–67, 9
couplets; pp.╯269–70, 6 couplets; pp.╯271–99, 113 couplets). Many
shorter specimens have been published in Mâhtâk Balôčî and
Nôkên Dawr, and there are countless unpublished examples,
mostly shorter episodes from the tale.
Šêh Murîd is said in several ballads to be a “follower of Čâkur,”
and is confused in at least one ballad version of the “Four Vows”
story (see above) with Nôdbandag (see also Elfenbein 1990,
pp.╯360–61). Great generosity is admired as the highest of virtues
amongst the Baloch. The story goes as follows:
Murîd is affianced to Hânî, but Čâkur demands her for himself.
Murîd generously gives her up and then, overwhelmed with regret,
goes away on Hajj to Mecca. He becomes a wandering faqîr and in
his wanderings returns several times to his home in disguise, to steal
glances at Hânî—his love gives him no peace. On one such visit he
is recognized and a Great Jirga is convened. Čâkur agrees to give
Hânî up to him, but Murîd refuses, saying that his many years as a
wandering beggar have made him unfit for her. He departs, riding
his camel and singing love songs in the desert.
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Known poets
Ĵâm Durrak
The most notable, and also the earliest of these is Ĵâm Durrak, chief
poet at the court of Nasîr Khân I of Kalat. His exact dates are not
known. It seems quite likely that his oeuvre was written down in
his lifetime, but no written remains have been preserved. He was
a very popular poet, composing mostly short lyrical pieces in Co
dialect. His best work is very individual, characterized by very
short lines of e.g. five syllables with an irregular rhyme. A sample
of his poetry is given in Elfenbein 1990 (pp.╯257–71), in which an
attempt is made to give a critical text. The same cannot be said of
Dames’ examples (1907, nos. XLII–XLVI), transposed into Eastern
Hill Balochi as if Durrak’s work were that of an anonymous folk
poet. There are also many ballads attributed to him because of his
fame, on most doubtful authority. The first attempt to collect his
poetry in booklet form, Durr-čîn by Ahmad Bashir Balôch (1963),
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is not a critical edition and many of the poems are of doubtful at-
tribution. A poor specimen of four couplets attributed to him is
given in Baluch 1977 (p.╯75), and several issues of Mâhtâk Balôčî
contain examples.
A notion of the verse of Durrak can be obtained from the fol-
lowing short love lyric, hitherto unpublished. It is untitled.8
1. tau-ê girdagên bagg Thou art a wandering string of camels
man godaw-ân; I am (thy) troop of horse
2. tau-ê rôč nêmrôč Thou art the day at midday
man arnaw-ân; I am (thy) evening
3. tau hâkân lêflê Thou liest on the ground
man čittir-ân; I am (thy) mat
4. tau pâdân šapâd-ê Thou art barefoot
man littir-ân; I am (thy) shoe
5. tau-ê syâhên syâhmâr Thou art a black snake
man ĵôgsar-ân; I am a snake-charmer
6. mândrân ĵanânâ In chanting charms
dast-it girân I seize thy hand
Mullâ Fazl
Mullâ Fazl of Mand, a village just to the east of the Iranian border
in the Kêč valley (but whose dialect is Coastal), is reputed to be
the author of many fine ballads, of which one is given in Elfen-
bein 1990, p.╯272. Several of his longer works have been printed in
Mâhtâk Balôčî, and much unpublished work has been collected.
ʿIzzat Lallâ
ʿIzzat Lallâ of Panjgûr in east Makran probably lived into the early
nineteenth century. He composed his work in Raxšânî, his native
dialect, perhaps the first to do so. A short specimen of his poetry
8 Taken from a badly copied Ms. in Qômî’s possession, the text given here is a
reconstruction in Durrak’s original Coastal dialect. The rhyme is suddenly
broken in the last couplet. The rhythm is syllabic, with 5-syllable lines al-
ternating with 4-syllable ones.
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Known poets
Many poets of the nineteenth century are known, and a fair amount
of their work has been preserved. The following, in particular, are
worthy of note.
Mullâ Ibrâhîm
Mullâ Bampuštî
Mullâ Bampuštî, who lived near Bahô Kalât, also in Persian Bal-
uchistan, was a prolific poet. ʿIsâ Qômî had collected much of his
work, which was published in Mâhtâk Balôčî. An example is given
in Elfenbein 1990, pp.╯282–86. The dialect is Coastal.
Mullâ Bahâdur
Mullâ Bahâdur from Mand, was a more important poet than the
above. He is noted mainly for the technical accomplishment of his
verse, which employs an exceptionally long line, sometimes of fifteen
syllables, in strict rhythm. An example of his work is given in Elfen-
bein 1990, pp.╯286–88. Much of his work was collected by Gul Khan,
but it unfortunately remains unpublished. His dialect is Coastal.
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Fakîr Šêr-jân
Mast Tôkalî
Mast Tôkalî, also known as Tôkalî Mast (Tawq ʿAlî Mast) was a
very well-known poet of the nineteenth century who composed
in Eastern Hill Balochi. The specimen given in Elfenbein 1990,
pp.╯298–300 was collected by the late Mithâ Khan Marî, the lead-
ing authority on Eastern Hill Balochi poets. Tokali’s style was
more “learned” than most, with many Persianisms.
Rahm ʿAlî Marî was a Marî poet (in Eastern Hill Balochi) of the
late nineteenth century, who composed mainly occasional poet-
ry. Mithâ Khan Marî collected most of his work from local Marî
ḏ ômbs. His “Song of the Battle of Gumbad” is one of his best
works, a long ballad of 810 lines, about half of which is printed
in Elfenbein 1990, as no. 53 (the remaining lines are in Elfenbein
1994).
The nineteenth century did not see any production of prose that
can be called literature. There was of course much narrative prose
in the form of stories and tales, and a representative collection of
some of it is to be found in Dames 1909, and in Lewis (1855). Geiger
(1889, 1893) also published some short specimens. All of these texts
are in Eastern Hill Balochi.
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5. Miscellaneous verse
Songs
–â•fi Hâlô, a marriage song sung during the three days of prepara-
tion of the bride for the ceremony, usually sung by one woman
singer, and interspersed with choruses by other women.
–â•fi Laylarî (laylô), a girls’ song.
–â•fi Nâzînk, a girls’ love song.
–â•fi Môrô, a love song sung by men or women, sometimes with
accompaniment
–â•fi Lîkô, perhaps the best known, a work or travel song.
–â•fi Zahirôk, a song of separation, yearning and homesickness.
–â•fi Môdag, an elegy, sung by women mourners (modakaššâ•›) at a
wake. (Examples of all these are to be found in Barker and
Mengal 1969 II, pp.╯328–49; all are in Raxšânî.)
–â•fi Dastânag, a short song sung with the accompaniment of the
nar flute (see Dames 1907, no. LXIII, with remarks in Vol I,
pp.╯184–85).
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Examples are given in Dames 1907, no. LXIV; cf. Vol. I, pp.╯195–96.
All in Eastern Hill Balochi, called Buj(h)ârat. Elfenbein 1983
(pp.╯112–17) contains a collection of thirty-six, in Co dialect; they
are here called habr/pahêlî.
Proverbs
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Chapter 8
Ossetic Literature
†
Fridrik Thordarson
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the creator of the modern literary language. His Iron fændyr (The
Harp of Ossetia, 1899) is mainly a collection of lyric poems; their
tone is personal and as a rule tragic, the poet is abroad and feels
nostalgia for his native country, his village and the mountains. But
his themes are often also drawn from the Caucasian nature or in-
spired by epic traditions or folklore and mythology. The poem
Uælmærdty (In the burial place) has its background in the tradi-
tional burial rites called Bæx fældisyn (Horse Consecration), where
a description of the journey of the dead to the underworld is given
in traditional terms (Thordarson 1989↜a, pp.╯876–77). K’osta also
wrote a great deal in Russian, both poetry and prose, e.g. the tragic
poem Fatima, which has been filmed, with the text spoken in Os-
setic translation, so far the only Ossetic film.
Gædiaty Sek’a (1855–1915) is chiefly known as a prose writer,
but he also wrote lyrical poetry. He was born in South Ossetia
and particularly chose the life of the mountaineers of east Georgia
as themes for his short stories. His stories reveal with harsh real-
ism and tragic beauty their unrelenting struggle for existence. For
the development of social realism and for Ossetic prose writing in
general his stories have been of great significance. Among his short
stories Azaw is especially worth mentioning.
Other writers who made their debut before 1917 were K’ubalty
Alyksandr (1872–1937), mainly known for his social-historical
epic poem Æfxærdty Xæsanæ (a proper name), Kocoity Arsen
(1872–1944), who as a publicist and short story writer exerted con-
siderable influence upon the new literature; he also had a reputa-
tion as cartoonist.
Bryt’iaty Elbyzdyqo (1881–1923) is the first Ossetic dramatist
of importance; he wrote seven dramas altogether; in Amyran he
treats a subject from ancient Caucasian mythology (Georg. Amira-
ni). Kochysaty Rozæ (1888–1910) owes her literary name to three
comedies with folklorist themes; as a woman writer she has a place
apart in the Ossetic literature of this period.
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3. After 1917
For the Ossetes, as for the other nations of the Caucasus, the twen-
tieth century was an era of cultural awakening that was not least
reflected in the creation of a written language, and the growth of
literary production. Most genres of modern European literature
found their native representation; foreign literary works were
translated, as a rule from Russian. The impact of the new cultural
currents brought about a profound change in the spiritual life of
the nation. The break with the old traditions of the tribal society
became a frequent theme in the new literature.
The revolution of 1917 completely altered the conditions in-
forming Ossetic literature. Most men of letters joined, or at least
approved of, the new regime and remained in their native coun-
try. Some few, however, kept aloof from Bolshevism and emigrated
to the West. Among these was Baiaty Gappo (Russ. Gappo Baiev,
1869–1939), who had been one of the pioneers of the literary move-
ment around the turn of the century and a prominent figure in the
cultural and political life of the Ossetes. Among his poetic publi-
cations one may mention Gælabu (Butterfly, 1900), a collection of
poems, including some of his own, and Iron Arghæutæ (Ossetic
folktales, 1901). After the establishment of the Bolshevik regime he
settled in Berlin, where he taught Ossetic at various academic insti-
tutions and dedicated himself to the propagation of the knowledge
of Ossetic and Caucasian culture.
The Bolshevik cultural policy brought about a gradual abolish-
ment of illiteracy, which entailed a great extension of the reading
public. Literary interest was aroused, and literature obtained a
strong position in the national life. This demanded new types of
literature. In the biggest towns, theaters were built and thus work-
ing conditions were created for dramatists. The foundation of re-
search institutes and, after the Second World War, a university in
Dzæudzhyqæu (Vladikavkaz) was not only of significance to the
scholastic world, but also proved a vigorous incentive to cultural
activities in general. An Ossetic scholar who has won international
fame in the humanities, and particularly in Iranian studies is Aba-
ity Vaso (Russ. Vasiliy Abaev, 1900–2000).
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Iranian etymologies of the names of the two first clans are clear:
the Æxsærtægkatæ derive their name from æxsar, “power, force,”
also the eponymous ancestor of the clan (Ir. xshathra- “power, su-
premacy,” O.Ind. kshatrá. The word Alægatæ is apparently derives
from arya-, the ancient ethnic name of the Indo-Iranian peoples,
*âryaka-. The name Boratæ is enigmatic.
The Æxsærtægkatæ and the Boratæ are continually waging war
against each other. Batraz, whose body is made of steel, is the typi-
cal warrior; he is the defender of the Nart people against their en-
emies; he has the thunderbolt as his sword. Batraz cannot die until
his sword has been thrown into the sea. Finally the Narts succeed
in drawing the sword to the coast, thus fulfilling his own request.
Another central hero is Soslan (or Sosyryko). He excels through
his intelligence as well as bravery. His solar character seems clear;
he is married for instance to the daughter of the sun (Wac-Ruxs,
Acy-). He is “rock-born,” i.e. originated from a rock, a qualification
he seems to share with Mithra, the Aryan god of the (social) con-
tract, who is also associated with the sun. A young shepherd falls
in love with Satana as she is washing her laundry on a riverbank.
He cannot retain his sperm, which falls on a stone. Satana takes
care of the stone, and in due time it gives birth to a boy. The Narts’
blacksmith, Kuyrdalægon, grasps the newborn with his tongs and
puts him in water to cool him down and makes him invulnerable.
But the parts of the body where the blacksmith holds him with the
tongs remain sore and vulnerable: a knee (or both knees), or his hip.
Soslan grows up with the Nart youth, his only enemy being Syr-
don, the diabolic rogue of the Narts. Through a stratagem of his,
Soslan is hit in his vulnerable part by the wheel of Balsæg, which
rolls in flames down from heaven towards the west, until it falls
into the sea. The wheel is somehow connected with the myths and
rites of the solstice. Soslan’s nephew avenges his uncle, and splits
the wheel in two; the two halves are placed on Soslan’s grave. But
Soslan is not dead, he lives on in his grave, where he is worshipped
at certain dates in June. The grave is shown at various places in the
N. Caucasus.
There are certain traits of shamanism in the character of �Soslan.
He descends to the underworld to seek the advice of his dead wife,
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207
Chapter 9
Ulrich Marzolph
Iran is, and has always been a multi-ethnic nation. Besides the vari-
ous Iranian ethnic groups—such as, to name only the largest, the
Bakhtiyâris, Lors, Kurds, or Baloch—the population of Iran in its
present boundaries comprises comparatively large ethnic groups
of Turko-Mongolian and Arab origin. The folklore and popular
literature of each of these groups naturally have their own specific
characteristics, but they have been studied only to a minor extent.
The present survey, while aiming to present the main characteris-
tics of Persian popular literature, will focus on available sources,
most of which have been published in the Persian language regard-
less of the original language of performance. The only compre-
hensive survey of Persian folk-literature previously published in
English (Cejpek 1968) is still highly informative today. Due to its
frequent pro-Iranian bias it should, however, be read with a critical
distance.
1. History of research
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Persian Popular Literature
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2. Fields of study
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Mahjub was born in 1923, and when he was writing in the 1950s
about his reading experience as a youth, he must have had in mind
the popular literature available in the 1930s. The evidence supplied
by Mahjub’s studies is further corroborated by a list published
in the recent History of Children’s Literature in Iran. The list is
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Persian Popular Literature
Terminology
Folk- and fairy-tales are usually denoted by one of the three terms
qesse, afsâne (with such variants as afsân, fasân, fasâne, or the dia-
lect variants owsun, owsâne, see Honari 1973; Mihandust 1999↜a–d),
or matal. The word qesse retains a somewhat vague relation to his-
torical or personal realities; even characters within a given tale will
relate their qesse, i.e., their personal history. In recent terminol-
ogy, qesse has come to denote the literary genre of the short tale.
Fictitious tales of wonder and imagination, and particularly tales
relating to sorcery and magic, are usually labeled afsâne. This term
shows an obvious etymological and semantic link with terms such
as fasâ’idan (fasânidan), ‘to charm, fascinate, enchant,’ or fosun,
afsun, ‘incantation, fascination.’ The term matal, indiscriminately
used to denote popular stories (Vakiliyân 1999), is not to be con-
fused with mathal, which denotes a popular saying or proverb.
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Introductory formulas
Closing formulas
Likewise, when the tale is over, closing formulas point out the un-
real character of the preceding tale and make it clear that the ac-
tion took place in an imaginary world, even though there might
have been parallels to the social and historical reality of the nar-
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same way, as they [= the characters of the tale] have attained their
hearts’ desires.” (Enjavi 1973, pp.╯115, 119, 133, etc.). The gifted
Persian narrator Mashdi Galin, who narrated the documented rep-
ertoire of her tales during World War II, even amended the formu-
las several times to include direct references to the political party of
her English listener: … hame-ye mottafeqin beresand, “… may all
the Allies attain”; dustân-e mottafeqin be-maqsudeshân beresand,
“may the friends of the Allies attain their goal”; doshmanân-e mot-
tafeqin nâbud shavand, “may the enemies of the Allies be annihi-
lated.” (Marzolph et al. 1994, vol. 2, p.╯29).
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Categories
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Characters
Like the folk- and fairy-tales of many other areas, Persian tales rely on
a standard set of protagonists with their stereotype functions, of requi-
sites and of actions (for the following, see Marzolph 1984, pp.╯24–31).
The most common hero character is the prince, often referred to
merely as javân (young man). Frequently, the prince is the youngest
of three brothers who has to make up for the faults or incompetence
of his brothers. The hero experiences dangerous adventures, fights
with demons and monsters, and accomplishes difficult tasks. In the
end, he receives his beloved princess and inherits the kingdom.
A typically Near Eastern heroic character is the kachal (bald-
headed, scald-headed), often a shepherd (Elwell-Sutton 1965). At
the beginning of the tale, the kachal is an outcast, a sluggard or a
coward, and always a pauper. During the action and when he is
challenged, the kachal proves to be clever and witty, courageous
and reckless. With these qualities, he masters the most difficult
tasks, often wins the favors of the princess, and becomes king.
Sometimes, as in the tale of the magic horse, a prince disguises
himself as a kachal. Another typical hero is the gatherer of thorn-
bushes for fuel (khâr-kan, khâr-kesh), corresponding to the poor-
est level of society. Although very poor, the thorn-bush gatherer is
generally a true believer, which helps him to overcome his fate and
eventually to acquire wealth and happiness.
While the hero’s only standard helper (besides his horse) is the
thin-beard (kuse), his range of adversaries usually comprises the
female members of his larger family. His mother-in-law, stepmoth-
er or aunt, in particular, tend to be motivated by envy, trying to
destroy the hero by calumny. Other relatives, including his father
and elder brothers, also agitate against him, and the only close rela-
tive who is described in a positive way is his mother. Another major
adversary is the king, who is often depicted as a powerless object of
his scheming advisers.
The role of women in Persian folk-tales is of a marked ambiva-
lence. As active characters, women are wily, deceitful, and often
simply evil. Only when counseling the hero, do active women—of-
ten in subordinate function—have positive traits. As passive char-
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acters, women are seldom more than objects which the hero strives
to acquire, often motivated by perfunctory external matters: The
hero falls in love with an unseen beauty by seeing one of her hairs
floating in the water, or by hearing someone mention her name.
Secondary characters in Persian folk-tales fall into two groups.
The first comprises characters from the real world, such as the
above-mentioned shepherd and the thorn-bush gatherer, or a mer-
chant, who usually has negative traits. Ethnic or linguistic minori-
ties are usually depicted with the arrogance of the dominant cul-
ture: Jewish merchants, black slaves, and gypsy girls are malevolent
characters, while members of the Kurdish or Lor populations are
at best portrayed as fools. The second group comprises characters
from the world of the unseen. Here one encounters a strict dichot-
omy. The demon (div), most often male, is usually both malevolent
and stupid. His standard role, besides fighting with the hero, is to
abduct human women in order to force them into marriage. The div
usually possesses an external soul which he keeps in a secret hiding
place. He can only be vanquished when this soul is discovered and
destroyed. On the other hand, the fairy (pari), who is often (but
not necessarily) female in folk-tales, is a perfectly positive character
(Omidsalar 2002). She uses her supernatural powers, such as sor-
cery and the ability to fly, to help the hero achieve his tasks. Mar-
riage between a pari and a human male is not infrequent. However,
although the world of the paris appears to be organized like the hu-
man world, these marriages rarely end happily, as the man is bound
to succumb to his human foibles and to lose his fairy wife.
The action in Persian folk-tales is driven by two forces. The
most powerful force in the story itself is fate. The pauper trusts
in fate and is redeemed. The king challenges fate and is punished.
Religion in its official form does not play any important role. If
religious sentiments are voiced at all, they are concerned with
popular admiration of venerated saints such as Imam Ali or Khezr,
often asking for their intercession to be saved from misfortune or
to achieve a particular goal. The other force, which is to some ex-
tent external, is the wishful thinking of both narrator and audience.
As folk- and fairy-tales are Wunschdichtung, human wishes trans-
formed into narrative, they both require and have a happy ending,
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Aspects of performance
226
Persian Popular Literature
yek boz bud. in se bachche dâsht. There was a goat. It had three chil-
yeki Shangul, Mangul, Daste- dren, [named] Shangul, Mangul, and
Gol. In har ruz miraft dar biyâbân Daste-gol. Every day it went out to
micharid, barâ-ye bozghâlehâsh graze in the pasture, brought milk
shir miyâvord o sedâ mi-kesh[id]: for its kids and shouted: “Shangul,
“Shangul, Mangul, Daste-gol.” Mangul, Daste-gol.”
inhâ dar miyâmadand o They came out, drank their milk
shireshâno mikhordand, ba’d be and went back into the house again.
khâneshân miraftand.
yek ruz gorg as in kâr bâ-ettelâ’ One day the wolf got news about
shod. gorg ham âmad o sedâ kard this. The wolf also came and shout-
ke: “Shangul, Mangul, Daste-gol.” ed: “Shangul, Mangul, Daste-gol.”
Shangul o Mangul ke dar As Shangul and Mangul came
âmadand, in gorg ishunrâ gereft o out, the wolf grabbed and ate them.
khord. Daste-gol raft tu-ye kure. Daste-gol went into the oven.
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6. Folk humor
It is extremely difficult to assess the role of Persian folk humor.
Humor is by definition aggressive, as it offers a jocular treatment
of conflicts, be they political, social, economic, moral, or indi-
vidual. As for style, humorous verbal expression is usually short
(as in jokes and anecdotes), sometimes interactive (as in humorous
riddles or jocular questions), and often arises spontaneously. Both
the subversive quality of humor and its spontaneity imply severe
restrictions on the availability of documentation.
Persian literature preserves several outstanding examples of hu-
mor and satire, and although these specimens were produced by
members of the literate elite, they may contain elements of folklore.
Even a literary collection of anecdotes such as Obeyd-e Zâkâni’s
(d. 1371) Resâle-ye delgoshâ may to some extent represent contem-
porary folk humor. On the other hand, the very popularity which
a collection gained through the process of retelling may result in
its jokes and anecdotes becoming elements of folk humor, even
though they originate to a large extent from Arabic and Persian
literature (see Halabi 1980; Marzolph 1992, vol. 2, index). In fact,
the publication and popularization of humorous texts from literary
works is a continuous phenomenon.
When the British colonial officer, Francis Gladwin, published
his Persian grammar, The Persian Moonshee (1795), he append-
ed a section of short humorous texts entitled Hekâyât-e latif dar
ebârat-e salis (Marzolph 1995↜c). The anecdotes were apparently
compiled by his Persian secretary from various works of Persian
and European literature, the latter being translated in the peculiar
style of Indo-Persian idiom. Gladwin’s selection, originally in-
tended as reading material for further practice, became extremely
popular in the Indian subcontinent. Soon it came to be published
independently; later it was translated and adapted in chapbooks in
India and other areas, such as in the Pashto Hagha Dagha (1930).
Before long some of the anecdotes it contained were collected
in fieldwork from “living oral tradition” (Marzolph 1992, vol. 1,
pp.╯126–29). However, it was only recently presented to the Ira-
nian public (Javâdi 1996).
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7. Folk poetry
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nâni 1997, 2000) has not yet been taken into account by Western
research. On the other hand, popular poetry is characterized more
strongly than popular prose genres by a high degree of spontane-
ity, and hence flexibility, which makes it difficult to document data
for research. Probably the largest existing collection, taped from
fieldwork in 1969–71 in the province of Fârs, still awaits publica-
tion (Neubauer 1983). Given the sparse amount of research avail-
able, the following remarks aim at a fairly general outline of this
field of popular literature.
J.â•›S. Meisami has pointed out that poetry, the key form of Per-
sian literature until the nineteenth century, has remained “the
central genre, to which all others are in some sense poor relations”
(Meisami 1997, p.╯296). Accordingly, most popular poetry is relat-
ed to popular versions of elite or “polite” literature. Many passages
from classical Persian literature, particularly from Sa’di’s Golestân
and Rumi’s Mathnavi, have become widely known by means of
recitation, reading, or inclusion in school-books, and are so gener-
ally acknowledged by all sections of society that they can be called
“popular.” Some poems, moreover, such as those by Bâbâ Tâher
Oryân (fl. eleventh century; see Arberry 1937), are still so widely
appreciated today that “the simplest Iranian sings his verses to this
very day” (Rypka 1968, p.╯234). Since the introduction of print-
ing, the Robâ’iyât-e Bâbâ Tâher has been further popularized by
the distribution of numerous editions of popular booklets. Similar
criteria apply to the Robâ’iyât-e Fâ’ez-e Dashtestâni or the anony-
mous Ash’âr-e kaffâsh-e Khorâsâni. Many religious works, par-
ticularly those belonging to the genres rowze-khwâni or marthiye
which deal with Imam Hoseyn’s martyrdom in Karbalâ, are com-
piled in verse. Their frequent recitation during the mourning cer-
emonies in the month of Moharram clearly popularized both their
content and form. Established as a genre by Kâshefi’s eponymous
Rowzat al-shohadâ’ (see Chelkowski in this volume), the genre was
particularly popular in the Qajar period, when many works were
compiled and distributed in (often illustrated) lithographed edi-
tions (Marzolph 2001, pp.╯25↜f.). The best known of these works
are Mollâ Bemun-Ali’s Hamle-ye Heydariyye, Sarbâz Borujerdi’s
Asrâr al-shahâda, and above all Mirzâ Ebrâhim Jowhari’s Tufân
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sung one after the other, they saw the individual poems as stanzas
of larger complex songs. The topics treated in folk quatrains com-
prise all aspects of life, including social and religious themes as
well as historical and heroic ones. Love is a particularly prominent
theme.
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8. Outlook
239
Chapter 10
Naqqâli: professional
iranian storytelling
Kumiko Yamamoto
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1. Historical background
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Naqqâli: professional iranian storytelling
and reached the Parthian minstrels called gôsân (Boyce 1957), who
are likely to have played an instrumental role in collecting and fus-
ing different strata of narratives such as traditions about kings and
the Rostam cycle (Boyce 1954, pp.╯47–51; 1955, pp.╯473–77). The
Sasanians (224–651) probably used storytelling for pedagogical
and entertainment purposes (Boyce 1957, pp.╯34–35). This practice
seems to have continued after the Arab conquest. The tenth-century
Arab bibliographer, Ebn-al-Nadim, tells us that the Persians were
fond of listening to stories at night (Dodge 1970, II, pp.╯712–17).
The historian Abu’l-Fazl Mohammad Beyhaqi provides more
concrete information on oral tradition in Ghaznavid times
(977–1186). Storytellers (mohaddeth, qavvâl) and poets were among
the courtiers of kings and princes. While the poets were always
present on ceremonious occasions and recited their poems with
musical accompaniment, storytellers seem to have been confined
to the private quarters of the court (cf. de Bruijn 1987, pp.╯15–16).
They were ready at a king’s command to narrate evening stories
(Beyhaqi, ed. Fayyâz 1971, pp.╯153–54), and to deliver messages as
emissaries (ibid., p.╯162). Beyhaqi also implies that storytelling was
popular entertainment among commoners (ibid., p.╯905). Apart
from these storytellers, we also know that Shahname-khwâns
(reciters of Shahname) existed in this period, among which the
name of Kârâsi has come down to us (Dehkhodâ, Loghat-nâme,
s.v. “Kârâsi”). Kârâsi was a courtier-poet of the Buyid princes be-
fore he found a way to Sultan Mahmud’s court (ibid.; Bahâr 1940,
pp.╯395–97). In a group of Shahname manuscripts Sultan Mahmud
is said to have preferred listening to Kârâsi’s narration to that of
the poet Onsori.2 It should be mentioned, however, that what
Shahname-khwâns such as Kârâsi narrated in the early Islamic pe-
riod was probably not Ferdowsi’s text. As Hoseyn Lesân pointed
out, Ferdowsi’s work is not mentioned in any major anthologies of
that period (Lesân 1976, p.╯7; Minovi 1976, pp.╯129–35). Although
Beyhaqi cites a number of verses in his chronicle, he is silent about
2 This episode has some variants in which Kârâsi is called a poet, nadim
(boon companion), or teller of Hezâr Afsâne (Wallenbourg 1810, p.╯52). J.
Mohl cites yet another version where Onsori, as opposed to Kârâsi, is said
to have told evening stories (Mohl 1838, I, p.╯X X).
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big cities like Tehran and Isfahan. They performed in mosques, ba-
zaars, squares and coffeehouses (ibid., pp.╯241–42). Leaders of such
storytellers were part of the court establishment. Qajar princes had
naqqâl-bâshis (chief storytellers) narrate evening stories; among
these, Mirzâ Mohammad Ali Naqib-al-Mamâlek is well-known for
his Amir Arsalân (Mahjub 1961, pp.╯X VII-XXI; Hanaway 1985).
This period, it seems, also saw naqqâli spread among a wider audi-
ence, notably women and children who were traditionally excluded
from the coffeehouses. Many stories which had been narrated at
coffeehouses appeared in chapbooks (Hanaway 1974, p.╯9; cf. Mar-
zolph 1994). A literate member of a family read such books aloud
to the others in the evenings and in winter.3
It seems likely that the Pahlavi régime (1925–79) was partly re-
sponsible for the decline of naqqâli. In the late 1920s naqqâls were
accused of instigating members of guild organizations (whose mem-
bers formed the main part of their audiences) to rioting, and were
forbidden to perform in coffeehouses (Zariri, p.╯X XVIII-XXXII;
Sadâqat-Nezhâd, p.╯7). Around 1935 coffeehouses were temporar-
ily closed down to improve their conditions and to license a few
capable naqqâls to recite Ferdowsi’s Shahname, which was actively
promoted by the régime (Shirazi 1973, p.╯99). Since then naqqâli
has come to be identified with the Shahname of Ferdowsi.
A still more powerful threat to the naqqâli tradition, however,
was the mass media which penetrated into society. In the 1940s
radio broadcasting began in Iran. In the wake of World War II,
this rapidly took coffeehouse patrons away from naqqâli. From the
late 1950s, television, cinema and theater became so prevalent that
many storytellers were forced out of their jobs (Âl-e Dâvud 1993,
p.╯3). At the time of writing the future of naqqâli depends on a few
willing storytellers who strive to keep the tradition going.
3 Morshed Vali-Allâh Torâbi told the present writer that his mother used to
tell him Shahname stories when he was young.
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2. Storytellers
Although no systematic research has been done on the social status of
the storytellers in pre-modern Iran, professional storytellers seem to
have been associated with popular entertainers (ma’reke-girân) in gen-
eral, and with practitioners of verbal arts in particular. By the Timurid
period storytellers belonged to a corporation of popular entertainers,
which were divided into ahl-e sokhan (orators), ahl-e zur (athletes),
and ahl-e bâzi (players; Kâshefi-Sabzevâri, pp.╯275, 279). The first of
these were subdivided into two: maddâhân and qesse-khwânân. The
maddâhân (lit. eulogizers) praised the Prophet and Imams and told
religious stories in verse form (ibid., pp.╯277–79, 281–82), while qesse-
khwânân (storytellers) told stories about historical personages and
about wonders and marvels (ibid., pp.╯296, 302). This last group was
apparently distinguished by its narrative genre and form from afsâne-
khwânân (fabulists) and nazm-khwânân (reciters of poetry). In the Sa-
favid period also storytellers were part of a professional organization
which included: qesse-guyân (storytellers), shahname-khwânân (recit-
ers of Shahname), dervishes, wrestlers, acrobats, rope-dancers, jug-
glers, puppeteers, etc. (Keyvani 1982, p.╯53). They were also dervishes
and belonged to Sufi Orders (notably the Qalandars in the Safavid
period, and the Ajams and Khâksârs under the Qajars). They engaged
in rowze-khwâni (reciting of the martydom of Imams) and told hagi-
ographies (Afshâri 1990, p.╯479). A seventeenth-century shahname-
khwân, Hoseynâ Sabuhi, was originally a vagabond dervish who came
to perform the Shahname and Qesse-ye Hamze after entering into
a Khan’s service (Nasrâbâdi, ed. Dastgerdi 1939, p.╯357). Mirzâ Mo-
hammad also excelled in verse recitation and storytelling (sokhan-
sarâ’i; ibid., p.╯401). A nineteenth-century storyteller, Hâji Ahmad,
learned snake-charming and juggling from his uncles when he was
young. He later became a dervish and joined the Ajams, introduced by
his Sufi mentor who also taught him the recitation of the Eskandar-
nâme. When he came back from pilgrimage he began telling Shah-
name stories and the Eskandar-nâme at coffeehouses, mosques and
private houses in Tehran (Aubin 1908, pp.╯246–48). The internal divi-
sions among popular entertainers were thus relatively loose, and each
was constantly influenced by others through all-round performers.
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3. Training
4. Tumârs
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5. Repertoire
By the end of the Qajar period, the repertoire of storytellers was
more or less fixed to the following works (Mahjub 1958, p.╯531;
1961–62, p.╯II; 1970–71, p.╯42; Beyzâ’i 1962–63, p.╯21; Dustkhwâh
1966, p.╯74; Page 1977, p.╯37): Samak-e Ayyâr; Qesse-ye Hamze
(a biography of Mohammad’s uncle, Hamze b. Abd-al-Mottaleb;
She’âr 1968–69); Abu-Moslem-nâme (Tarsusi; Yaghmâ’i n.d.; Mé-
likoff 1962); the Dârâb-nâme of Tarsusi (a Persian version of the
Alexander Romance; Safâ 1965–68; Hanaway 1996↜a); the Dârâb-
nâme of Bighami (see above); Eskandar-nâme (reworked in Safavid
times; Afshâr 1964; Southgate 1978); Khâvar-nâme (or Khâvarân-
nâme) of Mowlânâ Mohammad b. Hosâm-al-Din (d. 1470; an ad-
venturous biography of Ali b. Abi-Tâleb; Safâ 1970, pp.╯377–79);
Mokhtâr-nâme by Abd-al-Razzâq Beyg b. Najafqoli Khan Donbali,
known as Maftun (Safâ 1970, p.╯383; Tauer 1968, pp.╯450–51); and
the “Greater Shahname”: i.e., Ferdowsi’s Shahname with the later
epics, Garshâsp-nâme (by Asadi of Tus; Yaghmâ’i 1938–39; Huart
and Massé 1926–51), Bahman-nâme (Irânshâh b. Abi’l-Kheyr, ed.
Afifi 1991), Borzu-nâme, Farâmarz-nâme, Bânu-Goshasp-nâme,
Â�Shahriyâr-nâme, Jahângir-nâme, and Çzarborzin-nâme (Mohl
1838, I, pp.╯LIV-LXXIII; Massé 1935, pp.╯263–68; Molé 1951, 1952,
1953). While these are ultimately based on medieval epics and ro-
mances, a few works were newly created in those periods: Hoseyn-e
Kord (Mahjub 1958, pp.╯533–34; Marzolph 2000↜a, 2000↜b; Afshâr and
Afshâri 2006, pp.╯9 –40) and Amir Arsalân (see above). These works
have two main features in common: emphasis on Shi’ite Islam and
on marvels. Many focus on Shi’ite religious figures (Hamze-nâme,
Abu-Moslem-nâme, Khâvar-nâme, Mokhtâr-nâme and Hoseyn-e
Kord), and even in heroic narratives heroes often punish infidels
or make them convert to Islam. A well-known example of this is
the Eskandar-nâme, where Alexander the Great is represented as
the instrument of God. A less well-known example is perhaps the
Jahângir-nâme, in which Rostam converts pagans to Islam in much
the same way as Alexander does (Safâ 1970–71, pp.╯327–29; Soroudi
1980). Even in stories from the Shahname, heroes pray to God for
help in times of trouble, and thereby remind the audience of God’s
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5 Haft Lashkar, ed. Afshâri et al. 1998 includes the following epics be-
side the Shahname of Ferdowsi: the Garshâsp-nâme (pp.╯40–52); Sâm-
nâme (pp.╯57–143); Bânu-Goshasp-nâme (pp.╯197–204); Jahângir-nâme
(pp.╯205–16); Borzu-nâme (pp.╯246–325); and Bahman-nâme (pp.╯492–570).
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7. Performance
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9. Conclusion
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Chapter 11
Peter Chelkowski
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Kâshefi’s Rowzat al-Shohadâ’
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These are a happy fusion of the Iranian national epic with the reli-
gious Shi’ite epic. The main hero in these stories is the first Imam,
Ali. His physical and spiritual strength is prodigious. He appears
as a new refined Rostam, the national Iranian hero. According to
Hoseyn Behzâdi-Anduhjerdi, Râji Kermâni’s Hamle-ye Heydari is
“the greatest religious epic” (Behzâdi-Anduhjerdi 1991, title page).
No doubt this book is a very fine epic, but to call it “the greatest
religious epic” is an exaggeration. However, it had a tremendous
impact on many Iranian Shi’ite rituals such as rowze-khwâni and
ta’ziye-khwâni. The book is written in a beautiful poetic and dra-
matic language. The author, it seems, wanted his Hamle-ye Hey-
dari to be chanted or recited and performed in public, so he wrote
it in a flowing narrative style. Indeed, the performance came to be
known as hamle-khwâni.
There is another Hamle-ye Heydari composed in part by an
Iranian who lived in India, called Mirzâ Mohammad Rafi’ Khan
Bâzel (d. 1124). Since his book was not finished before his death,
it was completed by Mirzâ Abu’l-Talab Mirfendereski. It is not as
lucid as Râji Kermâni’s book, but both authors had in mind the
performing aspect of the book, and there they succeeded.
Other works of the Qajar period devoted to the suffering and
martyrdom of the Shi’ite Imams are Jowhari’s Tufân al-bokâ’
(Deluge of Weeping), and Borujerdi’s Asrâr al-shahâdat (Myster-
ies of Martyrdom). There is no doubt that these works, too, had an
impact on the development of popular beliefs and rituals in Iran.
The tragedy of Imam Hoseyn starts with chapter eight. It is de-
voted to the martyrdom of Moslem b. Aqil. In the printed edition
of the book, this chapter starts on page 210, that is, exactly in the
middle. Moslem was Imam Hoseyn’s envoy to Kufe. The chapter
describes his short but tumultuous career: How in Kufe he won
over twenty thousand people to Hoseyn’s cause, and how those
people, out of their love for the Imam, pledged and signed an oath
of allegiance to Hoseyn, which prompted Hoseyn to leave Mecca
for Kufe on his ill-fated journey which ended in his martyrdom at
Karbalâ. This chapter has all the characteristics of a tragic drama in
which the heroes face treachery and deception. It is vivid, full of ac-
tion and very emotional. The chapter ends with the bloody murder
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of Moslem and his two sons, one seven years old, the other eight.
This story remains one of the most beloved in today’s repertory of
ta’ziye, having even become topical in view of so many young boys
who died on the Iraqi front. The cowardice of the Kufans, who for
fear of the Umayyad authorities’ retaliation betrayed Hoseyn, has
become proverbial among the Shi’ites. During the eight-year Iran-
Iraq War (1980–88), the posters and billboards across Iran that were
meant to reinforce the morale of the Iranians, declared: Mâ ahl-e
Kufe nistim! (We are not like the people of Kufe, meaning: we will
fight to the end.) The courage, suffering and the brutal death of the
two boys of Moslem especially move the women in the audiences
of ta’ziye-khwâni, rowze-khwâni and other public accounts of their
bravery and martyrdom (Chelkowski and Dabashi 1999, p.╯95).
The ninth chapter is devoted exclusively to the Karbalâ tragedy,
and is 112 pages long, i.e., more than one fourth of the printed ver-
sion of the book. The passion, courage, and cruel death of Imam
Hoseyn, and his male relatives and followers, constitute a literary
genre known in Arabic as maqtal literature that has flourished in
the Muslim world during the last thirteen centuries, first in Arabic,
then Persian, followed by Turkish and Urdu. Underscoring the Ara-
bic contribution to maqtal literature, the Rowzat al-shohadâ’ bears
an Arabic title, but is written in flowing, unadulterated Persian.
The first half of the book is a long introduction to the genre
(maqtal-nâme). It is Kâshefi’s dramatic exposition of the tragic
events, in the straightforward, moving, yet simple language that
has helped the book’s tremendous popular success. In the eyes of
the Shi’ites, Hoseyn did not fight for wealth, power, or political
ambition, but for the Islamic ideal of social and political justice.
He fought and sacrificed his life for the unprivileged, the oppressed
and the humiliated. The engaging prose narration, illustrated with
occasional lines of poetry (mainly dobeytis, consisting of two dis-
tiches), and the vibrant description of the causes for which Hoseyn
fought, makes it the master maqtal-nâme that has dominated
popular Shi’ite literature for the last five hundred years. It intro-
duces and preserves the timeless quality of this tragedy that allows
Shi’ite communities to measure themselves against Hoseyn’s prin-
ciples and paradigms.
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2. Rowze-khwâni
The most important from among the religious rituals that are de-
rived from the Rowzat al-shohadâ’ is the rowze-khwâni, that is,
‘recitation, reading, or chanting from the Rowzat al-shohadâ’.’ The
success of rowze-khwâni was preceded by the popularity of fazâ’el-
and manâqeb-khwâni, which trail-blazed the public performance
of religious stories by professional storytellers. The manâqeb- and
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Toward the end of the Muslim year, black tents are pitched in the
streets. These tents are adorned with draperies, arms, and candelabra.
Here and there wooden pulpits are erected. On the first of Muharram,
when the festival proper begins, mourning clothes are donned; people
refrain from shaving and bathing, and a simple diet is adopted. From
the pulpit the beginning of Husain’s story is narrated with as much
detail and elaboration of episodes as possible. The listeners are deeply
affected. Their cries of “O, Husain, o, Husain!” are accompanied by
groans and tears. This kind of recitation continues throughout the
day, the mullahs taking turns on the several pulpits.
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those who beat their foreheads with swords or knives. The latter prac-
tice is now forbidden, but does take place secretly from time to time.
All these acts of self-mortification are performed along the streets of
towns and villages that are lined with mourners-spectators. The mu-
sic of drums and cymbals is an integral part of the daste.
The leading chanter of each subgroup in the daste intones dirges,
which are repeated by the entire subgroup. In contrast to the vio-
lent self-mortification, the lyrics of the dirges are very poetic. Even
these dirges are based on the Rowzat al-shohadâ’. The entire daste
halts from time to time before the tomb of a local saint or a reli-
gious edifice, where the chest-pounding of one group becomes the
rhythm of a chant of another.
The monotonous song with its strong rhythm intoxicates them.
They beat themselves as hard as they can; the sound is hollow, deep,
regular and unceasing, but this is not enough to satisfy all of them
(Canetti 1978, p.╯151).
The tempo of the chest-beating and the responding chanting quickens
till it reaches an uncontrollable pitch; only then does the daste resume
moving on. Elias Canetti (1978, p.╯151) defines this parade thus:
…(they) might be described as an orchestra of grief; and their effect
is that of a crowd crystal. The pain they inflict on themselves is the
pain of Husain, which, by being exhibited, becomes the pain of the
whole community. Their beating on their chests, which is taken up
by the spectators, gives rise to a rhythmic crowd sustained by the
emotion of the lament. Husain has been torn away from all of them,
and belongs to all of them together.
Foreign residents, envoys, merchants, missionaries and travelers,
who either resided in or passed through Iran in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries have left a very rich record of what they saw
there during the months of Moharram and Safar. These accounts
provide a chronology of the development of the pageantry of the
daste. As time passed, the number of participants costumed to rep-
resent various personalities in the battle of Karbalâ increased. Vari-
ous episodes from the tragedy of Karbalâ were also enacted. There
were costumed riders on camels and horses, followed by floats on
wheels with living tableaux.
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3. Ta’ziye-khwâni
In the mid-eighteenth century the fusion of the ambulatory daste
and the stationary rowze-khwâni took place, producing the only
form of serious drama ever developed in the Islamic world before
the early modern period. The performance of the resulting theatri-
cal form is known as ta’ziye-khwâni or simply as ta’ziye. The ta’ziye
is, mutatis mutandis, the Shi’ite passion play. To start with, person-
alities of the static living tableaux were given body movements, and
made to recite lyrics from the rowze-khwâni. Such lyrics were also
given to the costumed characters on foot or horseback. For a time,
this new form of religious performing art continued to move along
the daste as an ambulatory performance, and then became station-
ary (Chelkowski 1979, p.╯4). In this form, it was staged at cross-
roads, in town squares and market places; later it was performed in
private courtyards and those of caravansaries. Eventually, special
structures called hoseyniyye or tekye were built for the staging of
ta’ziyes. Some of these were built as pious endowments by the well-
to-do, others with contributions from the citizens of a city quarter.
Some were private structures, large enough to accommodate the
family and friends, while others were huge, seating thousands of
spectators. Many tekyes were temporary structures built especially
for the months of Moharram and Safar by local guilds, or members
of the zurkhâne (traditional Iranian athletic houses).
The most famous ta’ziye theater in Tehran was the Tekye-ye
Dowlat, the Royal Theater, built in the 1870s. Many foreign visi-
tors to the Qajar court were extremely impressed with this build-
ing, and with the splendor of the performance of the ta’ziye in
that theater. Although many tekyes were built in towns across the
country, no characteristic tekye architecture ever developed. Still,
there are features common to all tekyes that enhance the dramatic
action and the interplay between performers and the audience; this
is basically theater-in-the-round. The main performing space is a
platform in the middle of the building or a courtyard. The stage,
of various shapes but ideally round, is stark and un-curtained. It
is surrounded by a broad circular strip that is covered with sand
that is used for battles on foot and horseback, to mark subplots or
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4. Parde-khwâni
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Kâshefi’s Rowzat al-Shohadâ’
depicting the same narratives was not a major one. To illustrate that
the Qajar genre of Karbalâ painting was essentially a translation of
ta‘ziyeh production into the visual arts, one need only compare the
paintings with productions and texts of the dramas.
The verbal narrative, however, is based on a tumâr, a story out-
line in prose, which is derived from Rowzat al-shohadâ’ or another
maqtal-nâme. Very realistic scenes from the Karbalâ battle and
other Shi’ite martyrology are painted in oils on canvas. The parde
painting can easily be rolled up and carried from village to vil-
lage. Ta’ziye was usually performed in an urban environment, and
required a great deal of time and funds. The outlying villages in
the countryside could not therefore participate in them. In those
regions the substitute for the professional ta’ziye was parde-khwâni
(Chelkowski 1998, pp.╯90–97).
However, the antecedents of this narrative painting and paint-
ing-recitation could be found in Safavid times. Michele Membré
(1539–42), a Venetian envoy to the Safavid court writes (Membré
1993, p.╯52):
� the Sophians (i.e., the Safavids) paint figures, such as the figure
…
of ‘Ali, riding on a horse with a sword … In their squares there are
many Persian mountebanks sitting on carpets on the ground; and
they have certain long cards with figures; and the said mountebanks
hold a little stick and point to one figure after another, and preach
and tell stories over each figure.
Out of the performance/rituals discussed in this chapter, the only
one that is losing its vigor is the parde-khwâni; the others are not
only alive, but are undergoing a renaissance. This is a relatively
unusual state of affairs, given that they have to compete with radio,
television and the movies.
In conclusion, it must be said that the Karbalâ narrative has not
lost its popularity or vigor, considering the tremendous changes
that have taken place in Iran since 1979. Moreover, although illit-
eracy has been largely eradicated in the country, oral religious lit-
erature still reigns supreme.
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Chapter 12
Ravshan Rahmoni1
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Angura xûru boghasha napurs. Eat the grapes and don’t ask (about) its
vineyard.
Az yak dast sado namebaroyad. A single hand does not produce a (clap-
ping) sound.
Many of these sayings are also found among Iranian and Af-
ghan speakers of Persian, either in the same form or with slight
variations.
3. Riddles
2 i.e, one has to identify the house, three of whose inmates are fathers, etc.
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4. Bayt
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up the last letter of the bayt and begins a line with that letter. The
game goes on until the participants get tired of it.
In some regions people recite several bayts together; this is called
bayt-guzaronak or bayt-monî. Mirsaidov (1964, p.╯155) gives the
following description of the game: “A young man and a group of
girls recite some bayts while working. For example:
Ey ghunchay gul, ba har sari kor Rose-bud, don’t go along with just
marav any work
Ba guftay odamoni badkor marav Don’t act upon the words of
wicked people
The girls listen eagerly to the bayt, and one of them—a high-spir-
ited girl or the one at whom the poem was aimed—comes up with
a ‘reply’ (â•›javob). In this way the game of bayt-guzaronak can go
on for some time. The young men and women do not just recite the
bayts from memory, but also extemporize bayts about each other;
this is known as bayt-monî.
This explains why new bayts keep being composed. This writer
has observed that in the region of Ghonchi, some youngsters regale
their friends with half-lines (mesrâ) of the bayts they have memo-
rized, or with an altered version of some bayts by a known poet.
This helps to keep alive the knowledge of bayts among the people.
In the Ghonchi region bayts may either be sung or recited with-
out accompaniment, or to the music of a tambourine or another
instrument. While the singing is going on several bayts may seem
to form a song together, but listening closely one finds that each
bayt is an independent unit with its own subject matter.
The sense which the author of the bayt wishes to convey is
often made clear through a description set in a simple rural
environment.
Most bayts are about young people in love, but such themes as
alienation and exile (gharîbî), parting and separation, affection and
love for one’s family, are also found in this genre.
Allusions, metaphors, repetitions, similes and dialogues are fre-
quently found in bayts. Even nowadays bayts are recited as part of
popular discourse in some regions; people may bolster their advice
by inserting a bayt in it.
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5. Dobayti
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6. Robâ’i
Most Tajiks see the robâ’i as one of the foremost literary genres.
Like the dobayti it consists of four mesrâ’s, and the two genres are
similar in form and rhyme. In both robâ’i and dobayti, the first,
second and fourth mesrâ’ generally have the same rhyme, while
the third mesrâ’ does not. Occasionally, however, all four mesrâ’s
rhyme, or the rhyme scheme is a a, b b. The typical meter of both
dobayti and robâ’i is the hazaj. An important distinguishing fea-
ture is that the robâ’i always begins with a long syllable, and the
dobayti with a short one.4
Amonov (1968) uses the term robâ’i for both, whereas others dif-
ferentiate between robâ’i and dobayti. His main arguments are, (1)
that the dobayti is much less current among Tajiks than the robâ’i,
and (2) that the two are formally similar.
In the regions of Kulob and Gharm, and also in other areas, the
robâ’i is sometimes called falakî, kurtasurkhak, kurtasafedak, bayt,
or chor-bayt; in Bukhara it is known as mukhammas (lit. “quin-
tet”). Similar local terms exist in Afghanistan.
The robâ’i can be sung with or without accompaniment of a mu-
sical instrument, or recited softly as poems. The genre can describe
all aspects of life: exile and alienation, death and the impermanence
of life, family and pure love, plaints about destitution, lamentations
about fate, and similar topics. These have always been the subjects
of robâ’i, whether composed in the past or today, e.g.,
Dar gushay bom tamburi diltang A sad-sounding lute in a corner of
moyem the roof, that’s us
Chun jonvari ma’yusi sari sang Like a beast on a stone, despairing,
moyem that’s us
Dege, ki ba jush oyad sarpûsh The lid on a pan coming to the boil,
moyem that’s us
Oinay dukhtaroni rûpûsh moyem Mirrors (reflecting the beauty) of
veiled maidens, that’s us.
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Sitora balandu moh balanday The stars are high and so is the
imshab moon tonight
Ay bakht-i badum, falak ba tangay My luck is out, fate is not kind
imshab tonight
Har shab ba bolini baland khob Each night I slept on a well-filled
mekardum pillow
Bolini mani gharib sangay imshab. Poor me, my pillow is a stone
tonight.
In moha bubin dar osmon kam Look at the moon, there has sel-
budas dom been such a one in the sky
Sad dardu alam bar sari odam Hundreds of sorrows and pains
budas have fallen on one
Sad dardu alam bar sari shakhse Hundreds of sorrows and pains have
narasid never fallen on anyone (till now)
In murdani odamî ba yak dam This death of human kindness, it
budas happened suddenly.
Typical features of the robâ’i include allusions, metaphors, similes,
hyperbole, allegory, descriptions of nature, and flattering portraits of
some individuals; for the audience these are a source of aesthetic de-
light. The robâ’i also reflects thoughts of a philosophical, spiritual or
social nature. In southern Tajikistan many robâ’is are composed even
today. As a result of recent upheavals and civil wars in Tajikistan, a
number of Tajiks have fled to Afghanistan, where new robâ’is have
been composed with such themes as patriotism, exile and alienation.
7. Songs
Fundamentally, all metrical texts that are sung, with or without mu-
sic, are to be defined as songs. Typical genres include the following:
Tarona
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Joyful songs
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Satirical songs
Melancholy songs
Some songs reflect and express the pain and sorrow of human exis-
tence, allowing one to express feelings of grief.
Historical songs
Such songs describe occurrences and events that have actually tak-
en place. The most famous example of this genre is Shûrishi Vose’
(The great uprising), which describes the sad events of the uprising
of 1885.
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When the rains failed, the people used to implore Nature for rain.
In some regions this custom is called Sus-khotun (lit. ‘slug’), in oth-
ers Ashaglon; it was done by women. A woman wearing old and
torn clothes, holding a clothes-horse (a frame for hanging clothes)
in her hand, passed under the drainpipe while the others splashed
her with water singing:
Sus-khotun, sus-khotun Sus-khotun, Sus-khotun!
Alafakon tashna mondand The grass is thirsty
Kampirakon gusna mondand The old women are hungry
The people used to know many Navrûz songs, some of which have
been recorded. The following song, for instance, can still be heard
in various regions:
Navrûzu navbahoron Nowruz and a new spring,
Fasli gul astu lola The season of roses and tulips
Bulbul ba jûshi mastî The nightingale in the heat of its passion;
Qumri ba ohu nola. The turtle dove lamenting and complaining.
Harvesting songs
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Wedding songs
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Salom-noma-khon: Soloist:
Niholi qomati domod The groom’s tree-like stature,
bahravar gardad May it become fruitful
Duo kunem ki û shokhi pursamar We pray that he may become a
gardad bough laden with fruit
Miyoni dûstu jamoat toji sar gardad Distinguished among his friends
and in the community.
Miyoni khalq sarfarozu mû’tabar And respected among the people
gardad
Miyon-basta ba khizmat salom Ready to serve, we greet him.
megûyem!
Gurûhi Zanho: Women’s group:
Hazor aleyk! A thousand greetings in return.
Generally speaking, wedding songs can reflect joy, sorrow, sympa-
thy, true love and similar aspects of the human condition.
Dirges (marsia)
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Improvisations (badeha)
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together with men, the woman’s role was played by a man in wom-
en’s clothes. The following is an example of such an exchange of
improvised couplets, known as Bobopirak (from Nurjonov 1985).
This badeha and some others have now become part of the reper-
toire of professional singers.
Bobopirak: Bobopirak (male partner):
Holo ki nashistam dar boghi arab Now I am sitting in the Arab
garden
Bolo ki nigar jam’ shudan kulli ajab Looking upward one sees all
miracles gathering
Az mo tama’e zi lutfi khud nomi Please be kind and fulfill a wish of
kun mine
Yak meva zi bogh bide, yak busa Give me fruit from the garden, and
zi lab a kiss from your lips!
Zan: Woman:
Ey dilbari dildor, salomoleykum Oh lovely charmer, I greet you
Ey munisi ghamkhor salomoleykum Oh comforting friend, I greet you
Man dar talabi tasbehamu tu I was looking for my rosary when
omadî you appeared
Tasbehro ba mo bide salomoleykum Give me your rosary, I greet you!
Bobopirak: Bobopirak:
Ey dukhtari durdona aleykat Oh pearl-like maiden, I greet you
vasalom
Ey oshiqi parvona aleykat vasalom Oh lover like a butterfly, I greet you
Man tasbehi khudro ba shumo I’ll give you my rosary
bakhshidum
Yak busa ba mo bide aleykat Give me a kiss, I greet you.
vasalom.
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8. Prose stories
Afsona
As the name indicates, these tales have to do with sorcery and mag-
ic, i.e., problems described in the tale will be solved by means of
magic and sorcery. These tales take one into a colorful, imaginary
world and confront one with various fantastic realities, creatures
and events, which are not found in the same way in other categories
of afsona. In these tales the hero has to face difficult obstacles in
order to achieve his goal, and he eventually overcomes these with
the help of magic, witchcraft, and similar activities. Outstanding
examples are the “mirror showing the world,” “the speaking night-
ingale,” and “the winged horse.”
Tales that were studied during the last decades of the twenti-
eth century may contain Russian expressions, or mention recently
founded cities, or make other references to modern times. Moreover,
a narrator may interweave a number of motifs from various tales
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into one afsona, or introduce a new topic into an existing tale. Nev-
ertheless, their essential connection with sorcery is very strong.
The range of contents of tales connected with sorcery is wide
and complex: they can assimilate a broad variety of topics. In the
tale Qilichpahlavon (The Hero with the Sword), the hero attains
his goal by burning the hair, wings, feathers, facial hair, or wool,
of various creatures such as mice, ants and demons. In another tale,
Ahmad Davlat, a faithful dog and cat obtain a magical knife, which
was purloined by a treacherous, ignorant woman, and return it to
its owner. The famous tale Govi Zard (The Yellow Cow), which
describes how a stepmother torments her stepdaughter, is still pop-
ular. Magic plays a crucial role in all these tales.
In such tales the entire plot centers around the romantic love be-
tween two people. Love also plays a role in other tales, of course,
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but not as the central theme. The hero of such a tale has but one
goal: to reach his beloved. These tales can also be divided into two
categories: 1) the protagonists do not achieve their goal and their
unhappy love causes them to depart from the world, i.e., the tale
ends in tragedy; 2) the lovers reach their goal, and true love tri-
umphs. Tales of love have their roots in a long and varied tradition.
The people have known and loved such stories as Leylâ and Maj-
nun, Farhâd and Shirin, Bizhan and Manizhe, Vâmeq and Adhrâ,
Yusof and Zoleykhâ, and Tâher and Zahrâ for many centuries.
The terms afsona, qissa, hikoyat, and rivoyat are often used almost
as synonyms. The most obvious characteristic of the qissa is that
it contains edifying thoughts and reflections, or religious wisdom.
The essential aim of the qissa is to guide society on the road to
faith and consciousness, justice and true humanity, by means of
religion.
The qissa does not have the same structure as the afsona; hardly
any qissa begins with bud, nabud (there was, there was not). If a
qissa does begin in this way, this is due to the influence of the af-
sona. Unlike the afsona, the qissa is not primarily a means of enter-
tainment, but a vehicle for imparting moral advice.
The people have devout feelings about the qissa. Although, as in
the afsona, events in a qissa may be described with a great deal of
exaggeration, and indeed contain inventions no one could believe
in, the people have a special respect for the qissa and perceive it
as part of the religious tradition. Although they may not believe
in some of the embellishments, they do accept that the essential
events and miraculous deeds of the protagonists are true. This
is because a majority of qissas are about the Prophets of old, the
Qor’an, Islam, traditions about the Prophet Mohammad, and other
religious topics.
While afsonas are told by young and old, literate and illiterate,
men and women, qissas are mostly transmitted with faith and re-
spect by people who have a certain standing and knowledge, and
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Rivoyat
Naql
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the subject from the 1930s onwards, and shown on the basis of a
wealth of material that it is correct to call such texts “oral stories.”
The naql resembles the ordinary story (hikoya) in many ways, but
unlike the latter it deals with certain motifs drawn from daily life,
which delight the audience.
Fabulous tales
This genre of oral prose has not only been insufficiently studied,
but it has hardly been collected, let alone published. The term
“fabulous tales” (hikoyathoi asotirî) was introduced by the present
writer (Rahmoni 1994, p.╯122) and was defined as follows: “This
genre consists of tales whose protagonists are supernatural, they
are short in form and fantastic in content, and are told by the peo-
ple, who believe in them even today when they are in difficulties,
and in whose truth they have faith.” These are popularly known
under such titles as “stories” (naqlâ•›), “fairy stories” (naqli parî),
“tales about Khizr,” “stories about Jinns,” and the like. In our view
the term “fabulous tale” is more suitable for this genre.
These are short, popular stories that describe both real events in
people’s lives and those produced by people’s imagination, includ-
ing tales about Khizr, fairies, disasters, jinn, ghosts, and other fan-
tastic creatures. It is a characteristic feature of the “fabulous tales”
that they portray events and motifs taken from daily life. Those
who tell such stories aim at making the audience believe them.
Latifa
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One day a young man asked a clever notable (‘Efendi’): “My friend
what should one do at times of hardship?” The Efendi answered: “It
is simple: when you’re young, steal, swindle and cheat; when you’re
old, become a Mullah or a Shaikh.”
In the latifa, the events of everyday life are alluded to in a pithy and
humorous way. The latifa is by definition short. There are always
few characters, normally two but sometimes more. All subjects are
treated by means of humorous dialogue. Some latifas contain bit-
ing social satire; others treat some aspect of daily life with gentle
humor and sparkling wit. The latifa always criticizes some fault,
act of negligence, stupidity, or other human failings by means of
simile, mockery, wordplay, or riddles.
Some Tajik latifas make fun of simple people from certain areas.
Thus, there are popular latifas about “Shirinis” (Bukharans) and
“Rumanis” (Khujandis).
In some respects the latifa is similar to the afsona, which is typi-
cally longer. Some people have made an afsona on the basis of several
latifas, and one afsona may seem to be composed of several latifas.
The heroic epics of the Tajiks have their origin in ancient times; the
Khwadây-nâmag and the Shahname are the best examples of such
ancient sources. Afsonas about Rostam are still told today. Profes-
sional public performances of episodes from the Shahname (some-
what like the naqqâlî tradition in Iran; see the chapter on Naqqâli)
used to be known in Tajikistan, but these no longer exist. In some
villages, however, readings and retellings from epic texts like the
Shahname and Amîr Hamze, the Uzbeg epics Bobo Ravshan and
Mashrab, and Rumi’s Mathnavi-ye Ma’navi, are held at a series of
gatherings intended to console and divert the bereaved after a death.
Tajik researchers have recorded cycles from famous storytellers,
of tales about Gurughlî (Gurgulî, Gurzod) and his family. They
studied this material as a “heroic epic.” Gurughlî is especially pop-
ular among Turkic-speaking peoples. While they recite Gurughlî as
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poetry or prose, accompanied by the târ (or the târ and the doira),
the Tajiki text is always sung as poetry with music of the string-
instrument known as dambura.
Heroism, courage and patriotism are key themes in the epic. The
Gurughlî tradition has always been stronger in the south of Tajiki-
stan (Qulob and Gharm), and is still alive there. Instead of doston, the
singers usually call it band (stanza) and sometimes shokha (branch).
The singers of Gurughlî texts are known as gurughlî-guy, gu-
rughlî-saro, or guyanda. Formerly the gurughlî-saro traveled from
community to community accompanied by his pupils. He per-
formed at community gatherings, feasts, weddings, and receptions.
Although the higher social classes also enjoyed the skills of the
gurughlî-saro, the audiences mainly consisted of small farmers and
workers, since their hopes and aspirations were reflected in this
work. The following is a typical stanza, about the birth and child-
hood of Gurughlî (from Braginskiï 1987, p.╯51):
Gurughlî bubala shudu kalon Gurughlî grew great and big
Ajab khushru pahlavon… A wonderfully handsome hero…
Sahar khest Gurughlî vaqti azon Gurughlî arose in the morning at
the time of the call to prayer
Khabar nadoshtand Ahmad-u Ahmad and Yusufkhon did not
Yusufkhon know this.
9. Folk drama
In the first half of the twentieth century there were Tajiks who,
though illiterate, composed poetry orally. Clearly such people also
existed in earlier times, but no one paid attention to their works.
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11. Conclusion
It has not been possible in this chapter to analyze all existing genres
in detail, so that the discussion has remained largely at the descrip-
tive level. From this very brief account it can be seen that some
genres of Tajik folklore have been studied by folklorists, while oth-
ers have not even been seriously collected.
At the time of writing, works of popular literature are still be-
ing created or performed among the Tajiks but, with the spread of
modern media, they are in the process of being forgotten. In any
case, it will be possible for a few more years to record those works
which the older generation still remembers, and thus to salvage at
least part of the corpus of folklore from oblivion.
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Margaret A. Mills
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While there does not seem to have been any significant popular
lithographic production in Afghanistan proper, a systematic his-
tory of publishing in Afghanistan remains to be written. Popular
Persian literacy in Afghanistan was supported by book and chap-
book production in Iran and the Subcontinent, however. In the
mid-1970s, during this author’s first research stay in Afghanistan,
popular lithograph publications available for sale included those
produced in Iran, of the sort detailed by Marzolph (1994), with
some scattered volumes still for sale that dated back to the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, plus recent Tehran publi-
cations, together with publications from Peshawar, Lahore, and in
one or two cases, older items from Delhi, all intended for a popular
Persian-reading audience. These could be found in Afghan bazaar
bookshops and also in private scholars’ hands. Most of the chap-
books and larger lithographed volumes for entertainment reading
were prose romances. Among those for sale in the mid-1970s were
Dâstân-e Amir Hamza, Amir Arsalân, Shâhzâde Momtâz, Habda
Ghazawât, Jang-nâme-ye Bibi Deyghun, Falak Nâz, Shâhzâde
Ebrâhim, along with some literary story collections such as the
mid-nineteenth century Alf leyle fârsi, or Vâ’ez Kâshefi’s Anvâr-e
Soheyli. More recent publications tended to be small format chap-
books of single romances (Najmâ-ye shirâzi, Heydar Beg), with
the odd volume of Mollâ Nasreddin humorous stories thrown in.
Dream-interpretation manuals also had a small but steady presence
in the bazaar booksellers’ inventories. One such was still for sale
on a sidewalk bookseller’s mat in Herat in 1995, in this author’s ob-
servation, whereas the chapbook literature had all but disappeared
at that point. Books and booksellers took a beating at times during
the war years. Books looted from shops and private libraries, and
anything else available, reportedly were sold for fuel in Kabul in
the early 1990s, during the worst years of the civil war and a three-
year drought. The popular literature available in Herat bookshops
by the mid-1990s included Iranian authors and translations of Eu-
ropean fiction.
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307
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308
Oral and Popular Literature in Dari Persian
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310
Oral and Popular Literature in Dari Persian
with photos and drawings, and reports on folk literature and cus-
toms from various regions of Afghanistan as part of its mission to
document and display for general readers, primarily Afghan, the
country’s cultural activities, portrayed as a worthy component
of world cultural property alongside the folk culture being show-
cased by other nation-states. Presentations described forms such as
dance and music that, while greatly enjoyed by Afghans, were and
are viewed as religiously suspect and not very respectable.
By the late 1960s and early ’70s, the most active and intellec-
tually ambitious folklore scholars in Afghanistan included Sho’ur
himself; Abdul-Qayyum Qawim; Hafizullah Baghban (HâfezÂ�
ollâh Bâghbân) and Enâyatollâh Shahrâni. Shahrâni was at work
on Badakhshâni texts and lexicography from the 1960s and sub-
sequently expanded his interests to the nationwide collection of
proverbs, a book-length collection appearing in 1975 as Amthâl o
hekam (Proverbs and Proverbial Sayings), almost 2500 proverbs,
edited into standard Dari language and thus sacrificing potential
information on dialect and local idiomatic expressions of inter-
est. It was published in Kabul as a commemorative volume on the
thousandth anniversary of the death of the poet Daqiqi. Shahrâni’s
choice of presentation in standard written language rather than lo-
cal dialects, which he in some ways regretted (personal commu-
nication 1999), nonetheless served the purpose of making a wide
variety of texts accessible to general readers, an appropriate goal
of the cultural nationalism so prominent in folklorists’ efforts to
establish the value of the popular materials they studied. In his in-
troduction to the 1975 book Shahrâni gives a brief history of prior
proverb studies in Dari and Pashto, dating back to about 1925, by
five other scholars. He continued his collecting activities and, in
1999 as an exile in Bloomington, Indiana, published Zarbolmath-
alhâ-ye Dari-ye Afghânestân (Dari Proverbs of Afghanistan) with
a much expanded text collection. By 1995, Shahrâni estimated that
he had amassed a collection of about 40,000 proverbs (personal
communication). His own work has inspired some spirited recent
debate (Barzin Mehr 2002).
Hafizullah Baghban began his folklore collecting activities,
and published journal articles describing the folklore of his native
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312
Oral and Popular Literature in Dari Persian
1 I am indebted to Dr. Ravshan Rahmoni for discussion of the 1927, 1964 and
1965 references, to which I do not have access.
313
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314
Oral and Popular Literature in Dari Persian
315
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316
Oral and Popular Literature in Dari Persian
317
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318
Oral and Popular Literature in Dari Persian
319
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320
Oral and Popular Literature in Dari Persian
321
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323
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Chapter 1
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345
Oral Literature of Iranian Languages
Chapter 6
346
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347
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348
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Thorburn, S.S. Bannu: or, Our Afghan Frontier. London, 1876; repr. La-
hore, 1978.
Vejdân, Moammad Shafiq. Folklor-e Afghâni: Adabiyyât-e Mardom (Af-
ghan folklore: the people’s literature). Kabul, 1969.
Żamir, Moḥammad Ḥasan, Sapi. Paśtani sandəre (Pashto songs) II. Ka-
bul, 1956.
Žwâk, Moḥammad Din. Paśtani sandəre (Pashto songs) I. Kabul, 1955.
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Chapter 8
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Secondary literature
Narty. Osetinskij geroicheskiï epos (The Narts, The Ossetian heroic Epic).
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Abaev, V.â•›I. Nartovskiï epos Osetin (The Nart Epic of the Ossetians). CxinÂ�
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Dumézil, G. Légendes sur les Nartes (Legends on the Narts). Paris, 1930.
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duction and commentary by Georges Dumézil). Paris, 1965.
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Boldyrev, A.â•›N., ed. Skazki i legendy Sistana (Tales and legends from Sis-
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Boyle, J.â•›A. “Popular Literature and Folklore in ‘Attar’s Mathnavis.”
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Braginskiï, L. Iranskaia skazochnaia entsiklopedia (Encyclopaedia of
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Idem. Der Weise Narr Buhlûl (The wise fool Bohlul). Wiesbaden, 1983.
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248–70.
Idem. Dâstânhâ-ye širin. Fünfzig persische Volksbüchlein aus der zweiten
Hälfte des zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts (“Sweet stories.” Fifty Persian
chapbooks from the second half of the twentieth century). Stuttgart,
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Idem. “Folk Narrative and Folk Narrative Research in Post-Revolution-
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Idem. “Popular Narratives in Jalâloddin Rumi’s Masnavi.” The Arabist
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Chapter 10
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Bibliographies
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368
Bibliographies
369
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Chapter 11
370
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Pelly, L. The Miracle Play of Hasan and Husain. 2 vols., London, 1879.
Peterson, S.â•›R . “Shi’ism and Late Iranian Arts.” Ph.D. diss., New York
University, 1981.
Riggio, M.â•›C ., ed. Ta’ziyeh: Ritual and Popular Beliefs in Iran. Hartford,
Conn., 1988.
Rossi, E. and A. Bombaci. Elenco di Drammi Religiosi Persiani (A list of
Persian religious dramas). Citta del Vaticano, 1969.
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Bibliographies
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Chapter 13
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Bibliographies
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