The Meaning Of My Name
Words by Rojbîn Arjen, edited by Êvar Hussayni
The Kurdish language is vibrant and multi-dialectic; it possesses one of the richest oral literature traditions in the world. The Kurdish language was developed approximately 4,000 years ago and belongs to the Indo-Iranian branch of the Indo-European language family. There are three main Kurdish dialects: Northern, Central and Southern Kurdish. Kurmanjî is the most common dialect and is spoken all over Northern Kurdistan (Turkey) and Western Kurdistan (Syria), in the Soviet Union, the extreme Northern strips of Eastern Kurdistan (Iran) and Southern Kurdistan (Iraq). Soranî is the central Kurdish dialect, spoken in Iraq and Iran, written with the Arabic script. Southern Kurdish is spoken primarily in Iran and in parts of Iraq. This dialect group encompasses over nine sub-dialects.
Preventing the Kurdish language in any form is an everyday practice in the four nations which have imposed colonial divisions against Kurds. Speaking Kurmanjî in public and private was banned in Turkey from the 1920’s until 1991. It was illegal to say the word “Kurd.” In turn, this limited the resources available for learning Kurmanjî. Currently, in Turkey despite the formal lifting of the language ban, the resistance against the Kurdish language being taught in schools is just one example of the State’s desire to suppress the Kurdish language. The Kurdish language is continually stolen from us - censored books, banned concerts, denounced newspapers. This not only stems from a desire to assimilate Kurds but also serves as a tool to silence us. As long as our language is treated like an outlandish tongue and not as a native language of Kurdistan region, the suffering will persist.
Until the lifting of the language ban, Kurdish names were also forbidden. Names carry histories, become bridges between languages and shifted cultures. That aching pleasure when your name is said as it should be is one which many people do not experience. Over the years, I have heard many versions of my name slip and slide out of strangers’ mouths, many versions of my name created, misspelt, misconstrued. The history that my name carries became blemished.
“Nave min Rojbîn Arjen Yiğit” was the first Kurmanji sentence I learnt; it is the one I continually whisper back to myself in times of need. I use both of my names interchangeably, Rojbîn means ‘sun rise’. You must let the ‘j’ vibrate out from your bottom teeth, pronounce it gently. The letter ‘î’ in the Kurdish alphabet is pronounced like ‘e-e’, long like in ‘keen’. My middle name Arjen being ‘the one who sustains the sun’. Since reading and writing in Kurmanji, I have understood how Language serves as a thin veil. One which I have used to protect myself against the harsh light of the world. Harnessing my mother tongue split a tear in that veil, I began thinking in Kurdish and building worlds in Kurdish.
The universal truth is that in Western societies, those of us with ‘ethnic’ names, constantly anglicise the pronunciation of our names. I have discovered individuals who also shared my name, particularly Arjen Arî - the famous contemporary Kurdish poet. His work has become a source of inspiration for my own poetry, the natural lyricism and musical folklore of Kurdish poetry has allowed me to escape certain rigid forms of writing that the education system enforces. I grew up constantly listening to political conversations, adults humming and buzzing in the background. Now, connecting myself to such powerful Kurdish individuals grants me a certain pride and joy. I am once again reminded of the power of our shared histories and how the unification of our histories is where we should lament our hopes because this leads us down the road to revolution.
When I was younger, I used to think of myself as a duplicate. My Kurdish name had formed a division between the split-culture I was being raised in, my connection to my Kurdish identity was thinning and I was full of shame and irritation - I didn’t quite fit into either a conventional Middle Eastern culture but I also didn’t have a typical British family. I began to offer myself Time and gave myself the Space to think about who I truly was, who I wanted to be. I am trying to seperate myself from familial and Western expectations so that I can begin to appreciate my split-self.
Akin to most children being raised by refugee or immigrant parents, my cultural and political identity was balanced precariously. Maintaining this balance was a difficult game to play. Thankfully, growing up in London helped me, to see both mine and friends’ identities as something fluid and free flowing rather than a static homogeneous, predetermined thing. As a child, I wanted to have a name that could easily fit into people’s mouths, one which you could round off your tongue with a smile, one that didn’t bring about clouded looks on teachers’ faces whilst they took the register. I have been learning Kurmanji formally - to write and express myself. Learning to live in Kurdish, speaking such a beautiful language whilst writing poetry in my mother tongue requires patience and nurture. I have come to learn that my name carries my many tender wounds, transgresses borderlines and connects me to my roots - there is no greater joy.
Bio: Rojbîn Arjen is a Kurdish writer and incoming Medical student living in London. She has written for Bad Form, Gal-Dem, Lucy Writers and The Meridian Magazine. She is involved in a collaborative writing project with the Ruppin Agency, working to publish a hardcopy anthology focusing on the migrant experience. Her creative writing has been heavily influenced by the musicality and lyricism of her mother tongue - Kurmanjî. She currently volunteers for IKWRO - an organisation dedicated to supporting women who have faced FGM and other forms of Honour based abuse.
To read more from Rojbîn, visit @rojbinarjen on Twitter and Instagram.