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Who is Abdureshit Eli

Abdureshit Eli

Abdureshit Eli is the one of the imprisoned Uyghur writers, he is now serving his unknown years of prison terms.

Abdureshit Eli was born 27th of June, 1973 in Jiya village, Hotan, Xinjiang. He was taken to “vocational” camp in 2019, and since then there is no information about him.

Abdureshit Eli, a poet who goes by the pen name “tundiki adem” (person of the night). Editor of the “Yengi Qashteshi” (a seasonal literature magazine).

Abdureshit Eli studied in 1996 at Teachers College of Xinjiang University and graduated with a bachelor degree in Language Literacy. After graduating he worked in colleges, high schools as a teacher to taught Language Literacy, writing skills, computer skills, also worked as an editor. His first poems published in Kashgar Literacy in 1992, since then he has started his writing journey. Abdurshit Eli wrote more than 500 poems and published them in ‘Tarim’, ‘Tangritagh’, ‘Xinjiang Newspaper’. He wrote more than 40 stories, 50 articles and documentaries, more than 10 poems and stories are awarded within different sources, a few poems translated in Chinese, such as, “Poets are a disease to infect me”, Spiritual Tree” “Bath and Others”, “Modern men Today”, “Blossoms Season”.  More than 5 poems, such as, “Inner Kashgar”, “death” translated into Arabic. In 2007 his more than 10 poems were published in Kazakhstan “Education” newspaper in Slavic language. Abdureshit Eli is a member of “Xinjiang Writers Association” and member of a “Hotan Writers Association”.

Some of his poems on the internet:

To the star

Sleep time

Mirror, me and others

The gentle breeze of nostalgia

A face of silence

A face of silence

As a singer who has a cold

The river sings with no rhythm and sense.

In deep fog and its bank,

The black stone is praying…

It’s eight o’clock as tomorrow.

I am in a naked feeling.

India is going around Pakistan is on a newspaper.

There is a mountain Said my smoking friend It was an effort.

No disturbing him

Along the water flew by a sparrow.

Here we are.

The storm Moist…

Nothing we have thought.

جىمجىتلىقنىڭ بىر يۈزى

زۇكام تىگىپ قالغان ناخشىچىدەك

رېتىمسىز، چۈشىنىكسىز توۋلايدۇ دەريا.

چوڭقۇر تۇمان قوينىدا قىرغاق،

ئىبادەتتە قارا تاش…

سائەت سەككىز بولدى تۈنۈگۈنكىدەك

لېكىن مەن يالىڭاچ تۇيغۇدا.

ھىندىستان كىزىپ يۈرەر پاكىستان گېزىتتە.

تاغ بار دىدى دوستۇم تاماكا چېكىپ تۇرۇپ تەستە.

كەيپىياتنى بۇزماي دەپ

ئۇچۇپ ئۆتتى بىر تال قۇچقاچ سۇ بويلاپ لەيلەپ.

بىز بۇ يەردە.

بۇران نەمخۇش…

ئويلىمىدۇق ھېچنىمە.

The letter

You are a woman

Or a conqueror

I do neigh

Not a horse I am.

With a splash the river flows And the feelings slowly whiten

You are fastidious

In your broken glasses

The fields are thirsty to death

I came back speechless

A father of two sons

The arch of a ready bow

Stone homeland

The jasmine bloomed at night.

Picking the words arduously

I remember sitting tight.

I know

What briefly written is a letter

Yet the wordy one is pain


ﺳﻪﻥ ﺑﯩﺮ ئاﻳﺎﻝ

ﻳﺎﻛﻰ ﺑﻮﻳﺴﯘﻧﺪﯗﺭﻏﯘﭼﻰ

ﻣﻪﻥ ﻛﯩﺸﻨﻪﻳﻤﻪﻥ

ئاﺕ ئەﻣﻪﺳﻤﻪﻥ

ﺩﻩﺭﻳﺎ ﺷﺎﺭﻗﯩﺮﺍﻳﺪﯗ

ئاﺳﺘﺎ-ئاﺳﺘﺎ ئاﻗﯩﺮﺍﺭ ﺗﯘﻳﻐﯘ

ﺑﻮﺳﯘﻏﺎﯓ ﺋﯧﮕﯩﺰ

ﺳﯘﻧﯘﻕ ئەﻳﻨﻪﻛﻠﯩﺮﯨﯖﺪﻩ

ئۇﺳﺴﯘﺯﻟﯘﻗﺘﯩﻦ ﻳﯧﺮﯨﻠﻐﺎﻥ ﺋﯧﺘﯩﺰ

ﮔﻪﭖ ﻗﯩﻼﻟﻤﺎﻱ ﻛﻪﻟﺪﯨﻢ ﺑﯩﺮ ﺋﯧﻐﯩﺰ

ﺋﯩﻜﻜﻰ ئوﻏﯘﻟﻨﯩﯔ ﺩﺍﺩﯨﺴﻰ

ﺋﯧﺘﯩﻠﻐﯘﺳﻰ ئوﻗﻴﺎﻧﯩﯔ ئوﻗﻰ

ﺗﺎﺵ ﯞﻩﺗﻪﻥ

ﺋﯧﭽﯩﻠﯩﭙﺘﯘ ﻛﯧﭽﻪ ﻳﺎﺳﯩﻤﻪﻥ.

ﺗﯩﺮﯨﭗ ﻛﯧﻠﯩﭗ ﺳﯚﺯﻟﻪﺭﻧﻰ ﺗﻪﺳﺘﻪ

ئوﻟﺘﯘﺭﻏﯩﻨﯩﻢ ﻫﯧﻠﯩﻤۇ ئەﺳﺘﻪ


ﻗﯩﺴﻘﺎ ﻳﺎﺯﺳﺎ ﺧﻪﺕ ﺑﻮﻟﯩﺪﯗ

ئۇﺯﯗﻥ ﺑﻮﻟﺴﺎ ﺩﻩﺭﺩ

The homeland of blood

Birds in homeland

There is that piece of the sky.

All except my thoughts

Deeply lied in the black stone

Flowers bloom quite in a while.

I think about the blood.

A train is coming to a tunnel.

Burnt is the meaning of being naked…

Once, stop telling your fairy tale.

No terror within the doorless homes.

Thus tears the white papers.

Distant memories are the windows.

Weary morning

Possessed possibilities.

A fly has landed no my head

Eyes are bright, words are sticky…

قاننىڭ ۋەتىنى

ﯞﻩﺗﻪﻧﺪﻩ ﻗﯘﺷﻼﺭ

ﻣﻪﯞﺟﯘﺕ ئاﺷﯘ ﺑﯩﺮ ﭘﺎﺭﭼﻪ ئاﺳﻤﺎﻥ.

ﻣﯧﻨﯩﯔ ﺧﯩﻴﺎﻟﯩﻤﺪﯨﻦ ﺑﺎﺷﻘﺎ ﻧﻪﺭﺳﯩﻠﻪﺭ

ﻗﺎﺭﺍ ﺗﺎﺷﻘﺎ ﭼﻮﯕﻘﯘﺭ ﭘﺎﺗﻘﺎﻥ.

ﮔﯜﻟﻠﻪﺭ ﺋﯧﭽﯩﻠﯩﺪﯗ ﺑﯩﺮ ئاﺵ ﭘﯩﺸﯩﻤﺪﺍ

ﻗﺎﻥ ﻫﻪﻗﻘﯩﺪﻩ ئوﻳﻼﻳﻤﻪﻥ.

ﺗﻮﻧﯧﻠﻐﺎ ﻗﺎﺭﺍﭖ ﻛﻪﻟﻤﻪﻛﺘﻪ ﭘﻮﻳﯩﺰ

ﻳﺎﻟﯩﯖﺎﭼﻠﯩﻘﻨﯩﯔ ﻣﻪﻧﯩﺴﻰ ﻛﯚﻳﮕﻪﻥ…

ﭼﯚﭼﯩﻜﯩﯖﻨﻰ ﺗﻮﺧﺘﺎﺕ ﺑﯩﺮ ﻣﻪﺭﺗﻪ

ﺋﯩﺸﯩﻜﺴﯩﺰ ئۆﻳﻠﻪﺭﺩﻩ ﺑﻮﻟﻤﺎﺱ ۋەھىمە.

ئاپئاﻕ ﻗﻪﻏﻪﺯ ﻳﯩﺮﺗﯩﻼﺭ ﺷﯘﻧﺪﺍﻕ

ﺩﯦﺮﯨﺰﯨﻠﻪﺭ ﻳﯩﺮﺍﻕ ئەﺳﻠﯩﻤﻪ.

ھارغىن سەھەر

ﺋﯩﮕﯩﻠﻪﻧﮕﻪﻥ ﻣﯘﻣﻜﯩﻨﭽﯩﻠﯩﻚ

ﺑﯩﺮ ﺗﺎﻝ ﭼﯩﯟﯨﻦ ﻗﻮﻧﺪﻯ ﺑﯧﺸﯩﻤﻐﺎ

ﻛﯚﺯﻟﻪﺭ ﻳﯘﺭﯗﻕ، ﺳﯚﺯﻟﻪﺭ ﺷﯩﻠﯩﻤﺸﯩﻖ…

I got an illness named poetry

A meaning I look for within the silence,

To a chain, my sentiments have become.

Breaks the vagrant moon and ancient night,

And the wall surrounded me, kind and handsome.

The sound of spring’s footsteps can be heard,

In February’s embrace that is homeless and dim.

I finished you as I do the papers tearing to pieces,

As the stone, stiffened the cry that with no aim.

I one day want to kill my own soul finally,

A wicked scorpion, ah, my thoughts may be.

I heavily, helplessly get on to the streets,

Because I got an illness named poetry.

شېئىر بىر كېسەلدۇر ماڭا چاپلاشقان

بىر مەنە ئىزدەيمەن جىمجىتلىق ئىچرە،

ھېسلىرىم زەنجىرگە ئايلانغان تامام.

چېقىلار سەرسان ئاي، قەدىمكى كېچە،

ۋە مېنى قورشىغان مېھرى ئىللىق تام.

ئاڭلىنار باھارنىڭ قەدەم تىۋىشى،

فېۋرالنىڭ پاناھسىز غۇۋا باغرىدا.

قەغەزدەك پارچىلاپ تۈگەتتىم سېنى،

تاش بولۇپ ئۇيۇدى غەرەزسىز نىدا.

ئۆلتۈرمەك بولىمەن روھىمنى ئاخىر،

ئاھ ، مېنىڭ ئويلىرىم بىر مۇدھىش چايان!

نە ئامال كوچىغا چىقىمەن ئېغىر،

شېئىر بىر كېسەلدۇر ماڭا چاپلاشقان.

A divine tree

No single bird has flown back here,

You are taller than all trees although.

No leaves of yours will turn yellow,

Mornings come earlier to you, too.

Your fruits are ripe all the time at all,

Nobody comes and try to eat one

From early mornings to late nights.

No fruit falls down on the ground,

Can’t be eaten up, time is timeless

ئىلاھى دەرەخ

بىر تال قۇشمۇ ئۇچۇپ كەلمىدى،

بارچە دەرەختىن ئېگىز بولساڭمۇ.

سارغايمايدۇ يوپۇرماقلىرىڭ،

ساڭا بالدۇر يۈز ئاچار تاڭمۇ.

مېۋەڭ پىشىپ تۇرىدۇ دائىم،

كەلمەس ئۇنى يېيىشكە پەقەت

كەچ كىرگۈچە بىرەرمۇ ئىنسان.

تۆكۈلمەيدۇ تۈۋىڭگە زىنھار،

تۈگىمەس ھەم زامانمۇ زامان.