After surviving 14 years in brutal prisons, Syrian poet says 'it's time to write about life'
Faraj Bayrakdar wrote poetry imagining the fall of the regime. Now it's come true
Once upon a time, a man imprisoned by a brutal regime wrote a fable imagining its downfall. And though he could only write it in his mind, it marked his rebirth as a poet.
On Dec. 8, 2024, Faraj Bakyrakdar's tale became a reality.
Syrian President Bashar al-Assad fled the country, ending more than half a century of Syria's own incarceration.
In April 1987, Bakyrakdar was arrested for his involvement in a communist party. He was being held at the so-called "Palestine Branch" in Damascus — a notoriously brutal interrogation centre run by Syrian military intelligence. Hafez al-Assad, Bashar's father, was in power, cracking down on political dissidents.
"It was surreal. The cell was a strange place, our treatment, our interrogation, torture, everything," he told IDEAS host Nahlah Ayed.
"I felt as though I was a different person, watching myself, and finding what is happening strange."
For years, he had been in hiding, and he'd given up poetry to concentrate on political action. In between torture sessions, he began composing a poem in his mind.
In the poem, titled Hikaya in Arabic — which means a tale, or a fable — he writes:
Oh Master Despair,
tell your Lord the Sultan
that the cell is no narrower
than his grave
that the cell is no shorter
than his life —
Bakyrakdar's words — comparing the sultan's grave and life to his narrow and short cell — was his imagining of the fall of the Assad regime.
"When I wrote the poem, I did not dare see it as a real-life event, so I called it a 'fable.' Now, I can call it a dream. Because the story has come true, the fable is no longer a fable."
Watching prisoners walk free
From Sweden, where he has been living in exile since 2005, Bakyrakdar has been overcome with awe and disbelief as he's watched footage of prisoners walking free from the same brutal prisons where he was held.
"By God, my language is not enough," he said. "I felt as though on my shoulders, there was something growing. Something growing quickly that becomes like feathers and like wings. Something akin to flying … I didn't know how to move, my hands were moving out of my control, I didn't know whether to clap or to believe that these were wings with which I can fly? I was just sad that I wasn't there, I would have loved to hug each prisoner. I did hug them virtually."
So far, he has not been able to capture the feeling in poetry.
"First, my soul must calm down. But I will definitely write about it in the future … I have many books, most of which are full of death or talking about death in prison or massacres," he said.
"Enough writing about death, now it's time to write about life."
Faraj Bakyrakdar spoke with Nahlah Ayed about disobedience, hope, and how the freedom within is greater than any prison.
Here is an excerpt from their conversation.
You have said that the tragedy of prison is not only reflected in the person of the incarcerated, but also in life outside of prison. Many families have been destroyed and fallen apart. Can we understand Syria under 54 years of the Assad family as one huge prison, and this moment as a nationwide prison break?
Yes. I think we and our families were well aware that Syria is a prison, and inside it there are prisons, and inside those prisons were more prisons. There is a toy, a Russian wooden toy, called matryoshka. A wooden doll of a woman in two pieces, inside which there are smaller dolls. Syria was a prison inside a prison inside a prison. I have a poem entitled Matryoshka Syria in which I say it's prisons intertwined with prisons.
The sharpest weapon is writing poetry.- Faraj Bakyrakdar
But the suffering of the families worried us more than our suffering inside the prison, because we knew that we were alive. We suffered, but we knew how to endure it, but the families — they didn't know. I spent six years with no visits. My family didn't know whether I was alive or not. I myself know I am alive, so I am less worried than my mother, father and sisters. When I was released, they told me that they assumed I'd been killed.
Syria was hell. Without prison it was hell. And if you were related to a prisoner, your life was doubly hell.
The fear of prison in Syria and the fact of prison in Syria — how much did that experience over half a century actually lead to the courage that led to revolution?
A tyrannical regime assumes that the more they pressure people and scare them, it weakens their resistance. It is true to a certain extent… [but] the effect piles up and the tyrants do not realize it.
For example, in the prison, they once did a search, they confiscated my papers. The prison director read the papers and asked me 'what did you write?' I said 'I wrote about the prison, about the arrest and torture, informants, I wrote what I believe in. I wrote what you read.' He told me, 'Don't you know the punishment for these thoughts and those words?' I said 'I know. Its punishment is arrest, go ahead arrest me.' The person who is outside the prison will try not to say those things so he wouldn't get arrested. But if you are already inside the prison, you are not afraid to be arrested.
My real country — after al-Assad is gone, it will be my country, [the one] that I am looking for. This is the country I want.- Syrian Poet Faraj Bayrakdar
So, in a society where you are miserable and you can't earn a livelihood in dignity, whether you are a loyalist or an opponent, what will you lose? It is like a mob uprising. What will the slave lose if he revolts, or the working class? They only lose their chains that are restraining them. They already have nothing. That's I think attributed to Marx or Engels. When people reach their limit, they might revolt.
The tyrant who rules with blood thinks that people will be fearful forever. In an instant, people will break the fear barrier.
You've said it was in prison that you became a true poet — and that poetry is the 'antithesis of prison.' What do you mean by that?
In my view, al-Assad's prison is extreme predatory masculinity. Anything that is brutal is masculinity, that's my opinion. While freedom is an extreme merciful femininity, it is the total opposite. Poetry is what made me withstand the conditions in prison and challenge it. The importance of poetry is in its imagination. The most important element in the imagination for me, is in reality, poetry.
You cannot imprison imagination. Physically, they can arrest me, and control me, but my imagination cannot be arrested. I said before that poetry is the most beautiful bird of freedom for me. In other words, poetry is the extreme exercise of freedom. Thus, it was impossible for them to arrest my spirit, or imagination and lock it in a prison. The sharpest weapon is writing poetry.
One of the poems you wrote inside Saydnaya ends like this: 'Do you hear me? I am calling. I'm not searching for a collective grave. Just my country.' Do you think Syria is closer to being just your country?
So at the end of the poem I said to him 'I am calling out, I am shouting, do you hear me' and the words are directed at the other to the one who is outside the prison. 'I am calling, can you hear me. I am calling out. I am not looking for a mass grave, but for my country.'
The mass grave is the dictatorial regime. It tried to turn Syria into a mass grave, not a prison but a mass grave. This mass grave is bordered to the north by Turkey, to the south by Israel, to the west by such-and-such, and to the east by such-and-such. the Syrian map.
I want to say that this is not my dream. This is not my goal … If I come out and I have to live without dignity, without freedom, it will be like living in a grave. No, brother, this is not my goal, I am looking for something else, for something called my country. In order for it to be my country, it must be free.
In a moment of optimism I said it — despite all the circumstances I am in, and despite the torture I was subjected to and although I am captured now and I do not know when will I be released, this is my goal. I am looking for my country, my brother, and my country is not this one.
My real country — after Al-Assad is gone, it will be my country, [the one] that I am looking for. This is the country I want.
Download the IDEAS podcast to hear more from this conversation and Faraj Bayrakdar's poetry.
*This episode was produced by Nahlah Ayed and Pauline Holdsworth. Translation by Maha Takla. Readings by Sean Foley.
** Faraj Bayrakdar's poetry collection, A Dove in Free Flight, was translated by Ammiel Alcalay, Sinan Antoon, Rebecca Johnson, Elias Khoury, Tsolin Nalbantian, Jeffrey Sacks, and Shareah Taleghani.
