A Conversation with Sarwa Aziz on the Power of Literature and Music
In a world where war and displacement continue to haunt the human spirit, writing and music become places of refuge—preserving identity and helping to heal deep emotional wounds. Through her work, Kurdish writer and poet Sarwa Aziz seeks to give voice to the silenced generations shaped by war, ensuring that their stories are heard across the world and protected from being forgotten.
Writing in both Kurdish and English, Sarwa Aziz has become one of the most compelling contemporary Kurdish voices. Her work reflects the suffering, resilience, and humanity of the Kurdish people. Her poems and essays have appeared in international literary journals, while several of her poems have been adapted into musical compositions and performed on international stages.
In this interview, we explore Sarwa Aziz’s literary and artistic world, discussing how personal trauma can be transformed into creativity, the importance of telling women’s stories, and the role of literature as a bridge between cultures.
In an interview with the Kurdistani Diaspora Confederation (KDC) website, Sarwa Aziz answered a series of questions that contribute not only to Kurdish and world literature, but also to preserving an important part of history.
KDC:
Your personal essay From Ashes to Words explores transforming physical and psychological wounds into art and creativity. How can a person find meaning in life after experiencing profound pain and suffering?
Sarwa Aziz:
I believe that if you sit with any Kurd, they will have countless stories of war, displacement, and the loss of loved ones to tell. Even those who were not yet born, or were only children at the time, inherited these experiences through the memories of their parents and grandparents.
From Ashes to Words tells the story of my family’s displacement because of war and examines its lasting physical and emotional consequences. We cannot control most of the tragedies that happen to us, but once we survive them, we can choose where our stories end.
For me, writing is a way of refusing to let pain become the final chapter. It cannot erase the past, but it can transform suffering into testimony, connection, and meaning. Although writing cannot completely heal every wound, it offers peace by allowing survivors to reclaim their voices and preserve their stories from disappearing.
KDC:
Your poem The Remnants of War refers to the wounds that remain long after the fighting has ended. How do you understand the transmission of psychological trauma across generations?
Sarwa Aziz:
The Remnants of War grew out of my memories of my father during the Iran-Iraq War. Researchers have shown that trauma can be passed from one generation to another—a phenomenon known as intergenerational trauma.
As the child of parents who survived war and displacement, I have inherited many of its emotional effects, including anxiety, fear, and grief. I do not believe refugees or displaced people can ever completely free themselves from these psychological scars, because they become part of who we are.
However, we can learn to live with them without allowing them to define our entire lives. Writing has helped me give shape to memories that are often too difficult to express. It has allowed me to avoid becoming lost within them and to translate the language of pain into words.
KDC:
Your poem Healing became part of the musical project Cry for Freedom, performed by internationally renowned musicians and opera artists. What did it mean to see the suffering of the Kurdish people transformed into poetry and international music?
Sarwa Aziz:
Art reaches places that headlines never can. News informs us, but poetry enters the rooms of the heart where empathy begins. It allows us not only to witness another person’s suffering but, for a brief moment, to feel it ourselves.
When poetry is brought to life through music, its emotional power becomes even stronger because music gives poetry a soul.
Cry for Freedom focuses on the experiences of refugees and displaced people, exploring themes of homeland, exile, war, and hope. Hearing these stories transformed from poetry into music by internationally respected composers and performers was deeply moving.
These stories no longer remained on paper—they became living voices inside concert halls. As a Kurd, I felt immense pride that my poem Healing became part of this shared artistic journey.
KDC:
Your poem Healing was also published in The Other Side of Hope, a literary journal dedicated to refugees and displaced people. How do you see the relationship between music, literature, and our shared humanity?
Sarwa Aziz:
For far too long, Kurdish literature and art have not been given the place they deserve within the global cultural imagination.
Seeing my poem transformed into music and performed internationally reminds us that art can cross borders, especially where politics often fails. I believe literature and music create a language that transcends borders, politics, and even our mother tongues. They remind us that despite our different histories, our emotions are universal.
The Other Side of Hope is an independent literary journal devoted to the voices of refugees and migrants around the world. Rather than defining people by displacement, it recognizes them through their creativity, resilience, and humanity.
It is an honour that my work was published alongside writers from many different nations.
KDC:
In your poem Chains, written for your great-uncle, how do you connect family memories with the broader history of your people?
Sarwa Aziz:
Chains was written in memory of my great-uncle Suleiman, whose life reflects the experiences of many Kurds of his generation.
My great-uncle and grandmother were born in a village near Urmia. When he was only four years old, the family was forced to flee Eastern Kurdistan because their father supported the uprising led by Simko Shikak.
They first became refugees in Turkey before eventually settling in Southern Kurdistan, where they endured poverty and hardship. Years later, my great-uncle returned to his homeland, only to be imprisoned and tortured by the Iranian regime.
When I write about my ancestors, I am not simply recounting history. Through their personal lives, I try to portray the physical and emotional suffering experienced by ordinary people. I hope readers see not only Kurdish history, but also the shared humanity that connects us all.
KDC:
Your visit to the Holocaust Museum raised important questions about the world’s silence regarding Kurdish tragedies. How can writers and poets preserve the history of victims and confront that silence?
Sarwa Aziz:
The Kurdish experience is inseparable from our history of statelessness. For more than a century, the Kurdish people have faced division, oppression, and genocide, while international responses have often been delayed and limited.
That silence has deepened our wounds.
Literature cannot replace justice, but it can resist forgetting. It can preserve the voices of those whom history has tried to erase, restoring names, faces, and emotions to historical events.
I see my work as an act of remembrance. By telling these stories, I hope to challenge silence and safeguard memory, because without memory, justice becomes far more difficult to achieve.
KDC:
In your poems about Ayşe Şan, you explore the connection between suppressing a mother tongue and silencing women. Why has Ayşe Şan become such an important symbol for you?
Sarwa Aziz:
I grew up listening to the stories of women from my mother’s generation. They were the pillars of their families during war and displacement and played a crucial role in preserving Kurdish culture. Yet they also lived under the pressures of patriarchal traditions.
As a stateless people, Kurdish society has often been forced to focus on survival and political struggle, sometimes at the expense of women’s voices and rights.
Ayşe Şan embodies this intersection of struggles. She was not only a remarkable artist but someone who risked everything simply to sing in her mother tongue. She paid the price of exile and poverty for preserving her identity.
To me, Ayşe Şan should be remembered not only as a singer but as a universal symbol of artistic freedom and the right to speak and create in one’s native language.
Silencing a language is always an attempt to silence a people—especially women, whose voices have so often been pushed to the margins.
KDC:
Your poem A Letter from Rojava received considerable attention in American literary journals. How did you convey the resilience of Rojava to American readers?
Sarwa Aziz:
When I wrote that poem, my intention was not to provide political analysis or retell the events of war. I wanted to preserve the humanity of people whose lives are too often reduced to headlines.
Many of the images in the poem, such as severed limbs, symbolize not only physical violence but also the partition of Kurdistan itself.
I wanted the poem to move beyond the specifically Kurdish experience and speak to universal human concerns: memory, dignity, and the refusal to be forgotten.
I believe American readers connected with the poem because of these shared human values.
Literature cannot end injustice, but it can confront silence.
KDC:
In your translation of the poet Ilya Kaminsky, you write that “we must speak in a language that is not our own.” How do you relate to this idea as someone who writes in English while carrying a Kurdish voice?
Sarwa Aziz:
That line resonates deeply with me because it reflects how catastrophe often forces us to discover a new language through which to express ourselves.
As a Kurdish writer, my mother tongue carries my earliest memories. Yet I write most of my poetry in English so that Kurdish stories can travel beyond the borders of Kurdistan.
English has become another home for my voice—not a replacement for Kurdish, but an extension of it.
Translating Ilya Kaminsky into Kurdish was especially meaningful because I saw strong parallels between the Ukrainian and Kurdish experiences: both peoples struggle to preserve their language and identity in the face of oppression.
Writing and translation have taught me that literature can become a bridge between cultures. It helps us recognize that our longing for freedom, dignity, and humanity is universal.
Karzan Haidar