Mubeen Khishany

What is the day on the calendar?
it is the day of my death
and the day that repeats every day
and I die in

aus "The day that I will die in"

Der irakische Schriftsteller, Journalist und digitale Künstler arbeitet für diverse Zeitungen und ist Mitgründer des Maska Magazine für irakische Poesie.

Für seinen ersten Gedichtband „Aus der Hand des Trosts gerissen“ wurde er mit dem Al-Rafidain-Preis für junge Schriftsteller ausgezeichnet. Er arbeitete für politische, sozialkritische Videoformate wie der Al-Basheer-Show, einem für das freie Wort ausgezeichnete, sehr erfolgreichen Satire-Programm (auf DW Arabia).

Nach Todesdrohungen floh Khishany in die Türkei und kam 2023 als Stipendiat des Writers-in-Exile-Programms nach Deutschland, wo er an literarischen Werken arbeitet. Und den Podcast “Jawani” betreibt. “Jawani” bedeutet “Dystopie”. Seinen Podcast nannte er so, weil “die aktuelle Situation im Irak eine dystopische Situation ist”, sagt Khishany – und spricht darin über Literatur und Kunst, vor allem der der neuen Generation irakischer Schriftsteller und Künstler, und über Themen wie Meinungsfreiheit und Menschenrechtsverletzungen.

The day that I will die in

What is the day on the calendar?
it is the day of my death
and the day that repeats every day
and I die in
What did the world trade me for to bear all this pain?
Sadness is my second name and my portion from the treasure of feeling,
I have been meant to make the books of history fattest with pain,
And I bury myself so that the vita reproduced.

My rising from bed is a resurrection,
I walk to my end and my shadow precedes me,
Is there any sun could be ashamed of this clarity?
remember me if the wind moved a branch and an innocent bird shrieked.
I will need you to remember me.
He’s been asked about me the empty of gardens, but he does not answer!
I was the luminous flower of the gardens
But a left hand extinguished me.
Though I realize that every dawn carries its betrayal
But I am anxious to wake up.
It’s something that prevents me from being silent
With every inhale, I feel a dagger piercing my chest.
These daggers I k now…It’s
my questions…and my regrets
And my doubts…
But why is my blood strange!
The image of my fear has changed
and the astonishment of the unknown is over,
so that I’ve been afraid from my knowledge,
walking to my death like someone who fills right emptiness
and the same news are carried by all directions:
carry the same news:
wherever you turn your face away, your death will be Iraqi.
And so I sow my dream in the wasteland

And I know that my name is synonymous with getting lost in the crows party,
And that my life that was taken form me was not life,
It was a deferred death
And a date with another nil,
I do not hear the call of my heart
When he suffocated by a mound of the corpses of my brothers.
It’s all about losing my pulse
and I’ve lost it
I achieved the perfection and joy of death.
I have been betrayed…
And my killer’s name grows on the street signs.