Fog of January
TRANSLATORS’ STATEMENT
In early January 2022, Central Asia was rocked by the bloody aftermath of unexpected protests in Kazakhstan. Those protests started out peacefully, but soon turned chaotic, with official announcements that unspecified "terrorists" had invaded the country in an attempt to topple the government, and orders were issued to shoot to kill. Soldiers imported from Russia appeared in the streets. Protesters dispersed quickly in half a dozen cities, but in Almaty, the cultural capital, the chaos grew worse. Over the course of several foggy January days, the time usually dedicated to celebrating the New Year devolved into a nightmare. Innocent people of all ethnicities, young and old, were shot where they stood or were arrested and disappeared. More than a month later, no list of the dead and injured and arrested has yet been made available, and nobody is even sure how many are dead or missing.
Translators Shelley Fairweather-Vega and Katherine E. Young spent three weeks assembling and translating seven poems by half a dozen Kazakhstani poets who reflect on this trauma and uncertainty in the immediate aftermath of events. Most of these poems appeared in the online literary journal Literratura in February 2022, while others first appeared on Facebook. Our selections were driven purely by how these poems resonated with us personally. Given unlimited time and emotional capacity, we would have translated even more. While all these poems were originally written in the Russian language, each is suffused with a decidedly Kazakhstani mentality. Together, they are a plea for understanding, for answers, for a better future for their country and their compatriots.
We should note that as we worked on these translations, Russian troops were massing on the border of Ukraine, another country trying hard to determine its own fate. While still processing their own trauma, our Kazakhstani friends have also been speaking out boldly against Russian aggression in Ukraine – including by public protests! – despite the fact that the Kazakh government officially professes neutrality. Their principled stand and personal bravery are examples for us all.
Dariya Temirkhan - Quarantine Series 1 (2020)
Image description: Mixed-media collage of orange and purple hues. Some of the images have stretched and distorted textures, with the main focus being the cut-out images of three topless men bending forwards, sightly outlined in white.
ТУМАННЫЙ ЯНВАРЬ / Oral Arukenova
Translated by Shelley Fairweather-Vega
***
мама говорила
нет ничего прекраснее слова
ужаснее слова
папа говорил
нет ничего важнее истины
страшнее истины
внутренняя волчица шепчет
нет ничего сильнее крови
беззащитнее крова
я говорю себе не бойся
это всего лишь слова –
истина дом кровь
туманный январь
в сером небе ни звезд ни луны
лишь отблески взрывов
на стеклах высотки
весь мир растворился
в дыме и хаосе.
прикрываясь туманом
из верхних престижных
стекались к центру
бородатые рослые
призраки прошлого –
ассасины
из нижних районов
шли толпы разгневанных
оседлать
нефте-долларового быка
выхлестнуть ярость
на гламурные символы
хозяев жизни и слуг народа.
жители города яблок
не сразу поняли разницу
между хлопками петард
и стрельбой автомата
из окон домов
несмелыми струйками
сквозь грохот и гарь
пробивались молитвы
утренние вечерние
многократные
пятничные
субботние
воскресные.
клубами расползалась паника
не отвеченных сообщений
звонков
возбужденные возгласы
уф вы живы
что там у вас происходит
по новостям сказали
что стреляют по мирным жителям
зачем только вы обратились к путину.
в сером небе ни звезд ни луны
лишь отблески взрывов
на стеклах высотки
весь мир растворился
в дыме и хаосе.
между западом и востоком
между западом и востоком
твоё да – моё нет.
аруаки
спасите меня от пустых слов
оставляющих жалкий след
да обойдет меня сеть интриг
из чужих обид.
пусть нет будет нет
без моего суда
без верхнего суда
суда потустороннего
с чувством вины
где любой шаг –
преступление за
которым следует смерть
физическая или духовная.
люди и запахи излучают:
да – каждый второй
в патологии
с явным признаком цвета кожи
нет – мир состоит
из бесцветных хамелеонов.
да обойдет меня стороной
твоё да твоё нет
родина враг сосед.
*Аруаки – (с каз. языка) духи предков.
Fog of January
I.
mama used to tell me
there’s nothing more beautiful than a word
more terrible than a word
papa used to tell me
there’s nothing more vital than the truth
more frightful than the truth
the she-wolf inside me whispers
there’s nothing more powerful than your den
more helpless than your den
I tell myself have no fear
this is nothing but words —
the truth home blood
II. fog of january
no stars no moon in the lackluster sky
just the glint of explosions
in high rise windows
the whole world decomposed
in chaos and smoke.
concealed in the fog
of the high and prestigious
they dripped to the center
husky and bearded
ghosts from the past:
assassins
from the lowlier places
came the angered crowds
to mount and ride
the petroleum-dollar bull
to splash their fury
on glamorous symbols
of life’s own masters and civil servants.
the apple city’s people
could not immediately tell
the firecrackers’ bangs
from machine gun fire
from apartment windows
in hesitant trickles
through thunder and char
the prayers broke through
for morning for evening
many times over
for friday
for saturday
for sunday.
gusting the panic crept spreading
from messages unanswered
and calls
exalted exclamations
oh you’re alive
what’s happening where you are
they said on TV
that they’re shooting civilians
why would you ever go to putin.
no stars no moon in the lackluster sky
just the glint of explosions
in high rise windows
the whole world decomposed
in chaos and smoke.
III. between west and east
between west and east
your yes is my no.
aruaqtar
shelter me from empty words
leaving a pitiful trace
may the web of intrigue and
foreign grievances pass me by.
let no be no
without my judgment
without higher judgment
judgment otherworldly
with a sense of guilt
where any step
is a crime that
is followed by death
physical or spiritual.
people and odors both radiate:
yes – fully half of us
are pathological
with pronounced signs of skin color
no – the world consists
of colorless chameleons.
may it pass me by
your yes and your no
motherland neighbor foe.
*Aruaqtar (Kazakh) are the spirits of the ancestors.
Oral Arukenova is a poet, literary critic, and translator. She studied the German language in Almaty and business management in Hamburg. Her stories, poems, and articles have been published in literary journals in Kazakhstan, Russia, Germany, and the United States, including in Brooklyn Rail and the forthcoming anthology Amanat.
Dariya Temirkhan - Quarantine Series 2 (2020)
Image description: A reddish, mixed-media collage with cut-outs of images and pieces of writing. Three smiling faces of women, resembling deities, are scattered throughout the artwork.
Анастасия Белоусова / Anastasiya Belousova
Translated by Katherine E. Young
житель окраин
окуклилась
скопила
надышала тепло
братья и сестры мои по кокону
глаза их прояснились
руки освободились для объятий
время отпустить сандалии упархивать в балконные края
время читать стихи а не новости
слушать мысли а не ютуб
время в расплавленной карамели
янтаря
вязко и жарко
а потом "по три раза ходят на опознание: алматинцы не хотят верить в смерть"
протянулась пуповина
ледяной иглой всеклась в заворот пупка
10.01.2022, Алматы
[Untitled] “an inhabitant of the outskirts”
an inhabitant of the outskirts
pupated
gathered and
breathed in warmth
my cocooning brothers and sisters
their eyes lit up
arms broke free for hugs
time to let go of sandals take flight for balcony realms
time to read poems and not the news
to follow thoughts and not YouTube
time in the melted caramel
of amber
gooey and hot
and then “they go three times to identify the body: Almaty’s people don’t want to believe in death”
umbilical cord stretched out
icy needle jabbing the belly button’s whorl
10 January 2022, Almaty
Anastasiya Belousova was born in Almaty in 1996. She has a master’s degree in specialized literary studies and is a graduate of the program for poetry, prose, and children’s literature at the Open Literature School of Almaty.
Асел Омар / Asel Omar
Translated by Shelley Fairweather-Vega
НЕ СТРЕЛЯЙ
Спроси мое имя, пока я здесь.
Не плачь, мое сердце еще стучит,
Моя плоть превращается в глину.
На могиле моей вырастут маки,
Я верю.
На площади, уже видевшей кровь,
я не знаю, кто мне друг, и кто мне враг.
Я всего-то хотел справедливости.
Всего-то. Но ведь справедливости нет?
Спроси мое имя, пока жива моя мать.
Я поднял руки вверх,
Не вижу лиц тех, кто смотрит на меня в прицел.
Не вижу шевронов –
Слишком густой туман в январе,
И небо бело от вспышек гранат.
Ты же видишь, я безоружен.
Вожди называют нас великим народом
с телеэкранов,
Я стою здесь, подняв руки,
И мне все равно, как они нас назовут.
Ты просто не стреляй.
Не стреляй в меня.
Спроси мое имя, когда маки расцветут на моей могиле,
Когда тело мое станет частью земли.
Спроси мое имя, пока я здесь,
Слишком густ белый туман вокруг,
Это не автоматная очередь, не шумовая граната,
это сердце мое стучит
в последний раз.
Мама, это все еще я, прости.
Не плачь, просто сегодня слишком густой туман,
Слишком белое небо,
В которое я улетаю.
Don’t Shoot
Ask my name while I am here.
Don’t cry. My heart is still beating,
My flesh is turning to clay.
Poppies will grow on my grave,
I have faith.
On the square, which has seen blood before,
I don’t know who’s a friend, who’s a foe.
All I wanted was justice.
Only that. But maybe there is no justice?
Ask my name while my mother is alive.
I put my hands up,
I can’t see the faces of the ones who have me in their sights.
I can’t see their chevrons –
The January fog is much too thick,
And the sky’s gone white from exploding grenades.
You can see, though: I’m unarmed.
The chieftains call us a great people
from the television screens,
I’m standing here, my hands up,
And I don’t care what they call us.
Just please don’t shoot.
Don’t shoot me.
Ask my name when the poppies flower on my grave,
When my body becomes a part of the earth.
Ask my name while I am here,
The white fog is too thick around me,
That’s not machine gun fire, not a stun grenade,
that’s my heart beating
for the last time.
Mama, it’s still me. I’m sorry.
Don’t cry, it’s just that the fog is too thick today,
Too white, the sky
I am flying away into.
Asel Omar is a graduate of the Maxim Gorky Literature Institute in Moscow and a member of the Writers’ Union of Kazakhstan. She is the author of four books of fiction, a collection of poetry, and numerous articles. Her long short story “Black Snow of December,” about a popular political uprising in Almaty in 1986, caused great controversy at the time of its publication.
Dariya Temirkhan - From Fragments (2020)
Image description: Mixed-media collage, dark blue with hints of yellow. The collage consists of fragments of artwork, such as the background elements of a Gustav Klimt piece and the figure of a woman with pale blue skin. In the top right corner there is a cut-out of a woman’s face, and in the lower left corner, we see the nude lower region of a woman’s body.
Канат Омар / Kanat Omar
Translated by Shelley Fairweather-Vega
ЭТО В МЕНЯ СТРЕЛЯЛИ
когда пожилые родители пересидев у дочери все три кошмарных дня
и заставив сидеть с ними сына
который поначалу рвался на площадь чтобы видеть своими глазами
как народ наконец говорит
пусть неумело косноязычно задыхаясь от ярости но честно
и оттого речь его чиста
а потом увидев по центральному телеканалу
(потому что интернет сразу отключили а независимых журналистов
сделали зависимыми от воли случая и пули-дуры)
погромщиков с их криворотыми предводителями
тех самых титушек знакомых по зарубежным новостям прошлого десятилетия
а следом за ними трясущихся от вожделения мародёров
рушащих любимый город
то сразу как-то сник и просидел с ними вместе
все эти три дня
со стариками сестрой и племянниками
так вот когда пересидев три дня у дочери и дождавшись затишья
пожилая пара отвозит сына на стареньком митсубиши до самой его квартиры
чтобы с ним ничего по пути не случилось и затем успокоенная
возвращается наконец домой
её без предупреждения расстреливают военные
прицельным огнём на поражение
очень точным как на стрельбище или экзамене на политическую зрелость
умение стремительно развернуться по ветру
и сохранить невозмутимость
как будто бы это совсем не позорно и несгибаемые предки столетиями
учили именно этому
и автомобиль взрывается и горит на перекрёстке
как во время войны
которую объявили себе
не спросив никого
и никто его не тушит потому что никому нет дела
и сын всё никак не может дозвониться до стариков
и потом они с сестрой ищут по всему городу
звонят в полицию больницы морг
и только на четвёртый день находят останки автомобиля
на том самом перекрёстке
и сын собирает пошатываясь
рассыпающийся пепел любимых
обугленные косточки матери
хрупкий как ёлочная игрушка из новогоднего детства череп отца
и никак не может отскоблить
от металлического остова
драгоценную присохшую грязь
шепчущуюся с ним золу
и тогда ему помогают сделать то что он должен
те кто уже давно мертвы
когда об этой истории
как и многих таких же
– о застреленных детях о сгоревших заживо семьях о пулевых отверстиях в окнах мирных домов –
рассказывает жена
её рука с чашкой дрожит и красный остывший чай едва не выплёскивается на белоснежную
рубашку с короткими рукавами
а почему она в рубашке когда за окном январь
ведь она сидит за кухонным столом у окна и смотрит не отрываясь на улицу
от которой тянет холодом
кто мне ответит
5 февраля 2022
THIS IS THEM SHOOTING AT ME
after his elderly parents have been hunkered down at their daughter’s place three nightmarish days
and they made their son sit with them, too
at first he’d been out on the square to see with his own eyes
how the people were finally speaking up
honestly even if clumsily tongue-tied and gasping with fury
which made their speech pure
but once they’d seen on the government channel
(because the internet was immediately shut down and independent journalists
were made dependent on the will of fate and stray bullets)
the marauders and their wry-mouthed ringleaders
the same titushki they all knew from the international news of this past decade
and behind them looters quivering with lust
destroying the city they loved
Then the son wilted quickly and went to stay with them
all those three days
with the old folks and his sister and nephews
so after they’ve sat at their daughter’s place for three days until it is calmer
the elderly couple drives their son in their old Mitsubishi to his own neighborhood
to make sure nothing happens to him on the way and then feeling relieved
finally set off for home
they are shot without warning by soldiers
targeted fire shooting to kill
with great precision like target practice or a test of political maturity
the skill for quickly twisting in the wind
and maintaining impassivity
as if there were nothing shameful about it and their stalwart ancestors spent centuries
teaching them nothing but this
and the vehicle explodes and burns at the crossroads
like in a time of war
that has declared itself
without asking anyone
and nobody puts it out because it’s nobody’s business
and the son can’t seem to get a call through to the old folks
and then he and his sister search the whole city
they call the police and hospitals and morgue
and it’s only on day four they find the car’s remains
right there at the crossroads
and the son is shaking as he collects
the scattered ashes of his parents
the small and blackened bones of his mother
his father’s skull fragile as a pine-tree bauble from a boyhood holiday
and he just cannot scrape
the priceless baked-on grime
with the ashes stuck in it
from the metal frame
and then they help him do what he must
those who died long ago
when this story
as well as the many like it
– of executed children families burned alive bullet holes in windows of residential buildings –
is told by his wife
the teacup shakes in her hand and the cold red tea almost splashes on her snow-white
short-sleeved blouse
and why is she wearing short sleeves when it’s January out there through the window
she’s sitting at the kitchen table by the window after all her eyes are glued to the street
from where the cold seeps in
who can tell me
February 5, 2022
Kanat Omar graduated with a degree in film direction from the St. Petersburg State Cultural Academy in 1996. He has lived in Astana since 2001. His writing has been featured in journals and anthologies of Russian-language poetry from Kazakhstan and the international Russian-speaking world.
Рамиль Ниязов / Ramil Niyazov
Translated by Katherine E. Young
Колыбельная
I.
аул уехал в даль
словно в волчью ловушку
ты залей слова мамá
в моё пустое ушко
укради меня туда где течёт
Есентай под родимый кров
а не вен фабричный
берёзовый сок
и красная сперма-краска
аткян чаем рассвета ставшая
мы пьём его ночью
и зубы крошатся
а по арыкам
то солёным то сладким
течёт ледяной
пресной кипяток
и до звезды достаёт
бирюза
на вкус что
будто святой была
II.
где Фурманова вспоротое брюхо
почему-то оказалось пусто
саркыт бедным стала пустота
богатым — садака
на весь чёрный свет поминальный плов
в белоснежном казане приготовь
от сглаза занавес алый навесь
в на солнце сгнившее мясо
что называлось бог
чистые бритвы руками грязными
положи под язычок
III.
семью звездами стакан
нефтью огранённый до дна
залей в каспийское море рта
сердце прополоскать
сигарету об грудь затуши
белый буран
попробуй вкусить
—
он почти как «берёзовый сок» —
как то самое
ненужное детство —
вкусный и ненастоящий
—
он почти что
святой
и признает ли мать
одного
из пропавших своих сыновей
по тавру
под отрубленным язычком
Lullaby
I.
the aul moved off into the distance
as if into a wolf trap
pour the words mama
into my empty little ear
steal me away to where
the Esentai flows beneath my beloved home
and not a factory-made vein
birch juice
and red cum-paint
has become salty atkyan the tea of dawn
we drink it at night
and our teeth crumble
and along the irrigation ditches
either salty or sweet
flows icy-
fresh boiling water
and turquoise
reaches for a star
as if it
were holy to the taste
II.
where Furmanov’s split belly
for some reason turned up empty
emptiness became leftovers for the poor
sadaka for the rich
cook a commemorative feast for the whole black world
in a snow-white cauldron
hang a scarlet curtain against the evil eye
in the sun-rotted meat
that was called god
lay clean razors under the tongue
with dirty hands
III.
pour a glass with seven stars
faceted to the bottom with oil
into the Caspian Sea of your mouth
to rinse your heart
put out a cigarette on your chest
a white snowstorm
try to taste it
—
it’s almost like birch juice—
like that
unnecessary childhood—
delicious and unreal
—
it’s almost
holy
and does a mother recognize
one
of her missing sons
by the brand
beneath his severed tongue
Ramil Niyazov-Adyldzhyan is a poet, artist, and translator. He is an alumnus of the Open Literature School of Almaty (poetry seminar by Pavel Bannikov) and an employee of the Krel Cultural Center; he graduated from the department of liberal arts and sciences of St. Petersburg State University. In 2019 he was longlisted for the Arkady Dragomoshchenko Prize. He is the editor of polutona.ru.
Dariya Temirkhan - Untitled (2020)
Image description: A dark-blue, mixed-media collage. On the left is a painting of a hunched and hooded skeleton holding a club. The robe of the skeleton is patterned with circles and crosses. On the top right is a pale image of a woman similar to paintings by Gustav Klimt. The middle portion of the collage shows a distorted gray portal with two dark and stretched figures.
Ирина Гумыркина / Irina Gumyrkina
Translated by Katherine E. Young
***
И страшно так, Господи, страшно –
Уже невозможен побег:
Чернеет на площади башня,
И замертво падает снег.
За краем, за раем, за воем
Не видно, не слышно Тебя.
Нас перекроили без воли –
Узнаешь ли прежних, скорбя?
По буквам читай эсэмэски,
Молчи, как молчит «Телеграм».
Почти невозможно, но если –
Нас всех – отпусти до утра.
[Untitled] “And it’s scary, Lord, it’s scary—”
And it’s scary, Lord, it’s scary—
There’s no more escape to be had:
The tower showing black on the square,
And snow falling as if dead.
Beyond the edge, heaven, the howl,
I can’t see You, I can’t hear.
We’ve been remade against our will—
Will You recognize us, grieving?
Spell out every SMS,
Hush, like Telegram: go dormant.
It’s near impossible, but if
You can: release us all till morning.
Ирина Гумыркина / Irina Gumyrkina
Translated by Katherine E. Young
***
Этот город увековечен
В «Шаныраке» и «Акбулаке»,
В кетлинге и кибербуллинге,
В «Сулпаке» и реновации,
В исчезнувших трамваях,
Исчезающей мозаике,
В сгоревших памятниках
Советской архитектуры.
В январском тумане
Скрывается нечто ещё –
Если найдёшь какую-то связь,
Напиши петицию
В небесную канцелярию,
Чтобы было что рассказать
Следующему поколению.
[Untitled] “This city’s immortalized”
This city’s immortalized
In Shanyrak’s trauma, Akbulak’s,
In kettling by police,
In cyberbullying,
In rebuilds, trees cut down
To “beautify” Sulpak,
In long-vanished tramlines,
In a missing mosaic,
In the burned-out landmarks
Of Soviet architecture.
Something else is hidden
In January’s mist—
If you find any connection,
Offer up a petition
To the chancery of the heavens
So you’ll have something to say
To the coming generation.
Irina Gumyrkina was born in 1987 in eastern Kazakhstan. She completed the poetry seminar at the Open Literature School of Almaty and works as a journalist and editor. Gumyrkina has published her poetry in the journals Plavuchy most, Prostor, Etazhi, Zvezda, and more, and is the author of two books of poetry.
Shelley Fairweather-Vega is a professional translator of Russian and Uzbek in Seattle, Washington. She translates poetry, fiction, screenplays and more for authors around the world, with a special focus on the contemporary literature of Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan. Fairweather-Vega holds degrees in International Relations and Russian, East European, and Central Asian Studies. As a translator, she is most interested in the intersection of culture and politics in modern history. Her published projects and work in progress are at fairvega.com/translation.
Katherine E. Young is the author of the poetry collections Woman Drinking Absinthe and Day of the Border Guards and the editor of Written in Arlington. She is the translator of Look at Him (Anna Starobinets) and Farewell, Aylis (Akram Aylisli). Her translations of contemporary Russian-language poetry have won international awards; she was named a 2017 National Endowment for the Arts translation fellow. From 2016–2018 she served as the inaugural Poet Laureate for Arlington, Virginia. https://katherine-young-poet.com/
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Temirkhan Dariya was born 2000 in Almaty, Kazakhstan. She grew up in Uralsk and now lives in Almaty. Collages of the young Dariya Temirkhan immerse you in a world of fragments where open memory framing what she saw collects new ideas. The author uses a collage technique by collecting pieces of words and images from magazines and newspapers into her own story. Dariya explores the Kazakh language as a means of creating new archetypes in the young generation, enriching the outcrops with antique plastic.
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Robert Hirschfield pays an insightful and heartfelt tribute to a haiku master of South India.