Adil Tuniyaz, a well-known intellectual, was arrested in December 2017 and his prison term is unknown. There are varying reports on the duration of his imprisonment, ranging from 17 years to life. It is unclear which prison camp he is being held in, and there is no news on his health. Unfortunately, his wife and two sons were also arrested, and their whereabouts remain unknown. His father-in-law, Muhemmet Salih, reportedly died while in detention.
Adil Tuniyaz was born in Qarghiliq county, Kashgar in 1970. He studied Chinese and Uyghur literature at Xinjiang University for five years and graduated in 1993. He worked for Xinjiang Peoples Radio Station in Urumchi, where he also published his poems in the Uyghur literature magazine. He went to the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia for several years at the end of 1999.
In 2012, Adil Tuniyaz began his publishing business and published his own books, his wife’s books, and Muhammet Salih’s books. His wife, Nezire Muhemmet Salih, is also a prominent writer. Adil Tuniyaz ran a bookstore called “Qelem we Nur” in Urumchi, which became a popular meeting place for Uyghurs who love reading.
Adil Tuniyaz‘s first poem, “Suzuk Su” (The Clean Water), was published in “Xinjiang Osmurleri” (Xinjiang Teens) in 1982. His first poetry collection, “Soyup Qalsam Seni Nawada” (If I Love You), was published in 1992, and his second poetry collection, “Boytaq Shairning Mexpiyeti” (The Secret of a Single Poet), was published in 1998. He also collected his essays into a book called “Peyghember Diyarida Kecheler” (The Nights At The Prophet’s Land), and published other books such as “Yengi Asman” (New Sky), “Chumbeldiki Koz” (The Eyes Under the Veil), “Tashqa Sozlewatqan Adem” (The Man Speaking To Stone), “Dengizdiki Kocha” (The Street In The Sea), and “Qeshqerdiki Yer Shari” (The Earth in Kashgar).
The buildings have almost consumed us
Don wings my friends! May our imaginations fly,
Let’s escape without clocking out from work.
Let’s escape without waiting
For our hair to grey
For death to call
Work is our water prison
Our lives move along anxiously, squirming
Today was a day from our dreams
Clear weather, open workplace.
Abandoning it, I set a course to the edge of town
With my do-nothing friends.
Today was a day from our dreams
Like the burgha horns being played
From the white tents of Bilge Qaghan
Smoke rises
Like a horse from greener pastures,
Our hands smell of meat and bloodм
They are strangers to us now.
We sit shyly gnawing on mutton,
Wildflowers filling our glasses with dew,
Sun setting on pine tree crowns,
Sun filling our glasses with blood
Extended.
Let’s not drink
Let’s fear God,м We’ve come thus far fearing people,
(Life is meaningless, our halva tasteless)
Now let’s try to live without worry
Red camel, girl camel, water reservoir
Have edges like a cracked dutar
Ant tracks from childhood.
Breasts raised again and again
Water girl, blouse layer upon layer.
Water
Has no
Shadow.
The water is free,
Enduring,
It speaks,
It prays,
It sings in its own language.
There is no mud in its depths, no sorrow
It blossoms slowly in the wind.
I am heading to Kashgar
It is as if it is eating itself,
Or, there
Lie the corpses of angels.
A reddish curtain on the horizon
Flies silently, eternally
There, in those small instances,
A metal troop of busses become frenzied
Invading the desert wilderness.
The stones – stones are the ruins of palaces.
The stones – martyr’s decapitated heads.
The stones are dried out,
The stones are ossified bodies.
Among those whose lusts swelled and spilled
The lost/the crushed are you or me.
Kashgar–
A hot, unwithering scar,
Being born bit by bit.
My eyes dazzled black and blurred
Stars fill the skies and land.
Passing by so clear, lucid
In those solitary moments
My Lord, you exist in me, not I
It fell, ringing
From the mouth of an Uyghur angel
Its music sunk into our ears.
Oh, mother tongue
We became wanderers
And moved far from your horizons.
Opium poppies
Bring the scent of the seas
Thoughts are kept moist for a while.
I have left the radio on.
In the wind
It speaks.
Cool orchards
Oil, sandy mountains
A group of people whose colours have drained,
Cities and winter pastures dead still.
I drank coffee
And cried.
Among the nameless cavities
It drifts
Drifting like a poem.
Clear rays of thought
Drips on the mountainous city.
One by one, each will be illuminated
Fruit peel… dung… flower… abandoned child
The road may turn into dawn.
An old man, dragging his kalach
Passed by like a silent sound.
Becoming buds and buds of flowers
The smoke of a cigarette heavy with thoughts
Will pick them from the darkness.
There are bakeries and restaurants
My street, so loving, like a worn jacket
Who is there protecting you?
The vapour of dawn, the scent of hash
A latticed window opened like a curved moon
It drifts
Drifts like a poem
Increased over time…
I’m used to it,
The rainy view, isolation
The consistently damp capital city.
Its encounter is a stranger to you,
Police, beggar, new high-rise
Overcrowding, salt, et cetera.
You are an extra person who appeared suddenly,
When the sun rose a spear’s length
And silence intersected
With the tip of the tallest tower.
Or
You exist only because of your name.
A night restricted.
Women’s circle of light
Gathering excitement.
Male nation
Always male.
Anxiety comes like migrants
Anxiety is black and an unfamiliar colour
It resurrected me like a bull
Between your legs
Blossomed
A single deep flower.
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