For me, literature, journalism, culture, and public service are inseparable lifelines -Akbar GOSHALI
[Our interviewee is a distinguished representative of Azerbaijani literature — poet and publicist, member of the Azerbaijan Writers’ Union, and laureate of the prestigious international “Alash” Literary Award, Akbar GOSHALI.]
Interviewed by: Jakhongir NOMOZOV | Uzbekistan
— Standing between the past and the present, how would you define this path spiritually? How has it shaped you as a person?
— First of all, I would like to thank you for the interview and for starting it with such a meaningful question. Thank you very much! Anatolian bard Asik Veysel once said:
“I am on a long and narrow road,
I walk day and night…”
By the way, my official surname is Yolchiyev (which means “the traveler”), and one of my favorite sayings is: “From a shared past – to a shared future!”
So, I see this path between the past and present as a walk along an infinite shore. As Abay once said, “There is both fire and ice in its cheeks.” Water may dance with the earth and rocks, perhaps even sing to them, flirt with them — but what most is enchanting is when water dances with fire. Isn’t that more fascinating?
Let the water remain in its liquidity, the fire in its fierceness, and the earth in its firmness… The trace of the soul is better sought not in the soil, but in words, in people, in meaningful events, and events that embody values.
For me, literature, journalism, culture, and public service are inseparable lifelines.
This path transforms us into someone who “speaks once, listens twice” — someone who listens to the nation, who hears the breath of time, who turns to national memory…
At times, we sit at our writing desks; at others, we embark on long journeys; sometimes, we even share bread with soldiers at the frontlines. In short, we become someone who shares and partakes — as our ancestors said: “Share your joy – it multiplies; share your sorrow – it lessens…”
Thus, this grand path turns us into travelers of sacrifice, and at the same time, into bearers of an honorable responsibility… This, in essence, is a unique journey and a beautiful fate!
— In your view, what kind of fire must burn in a writer’s heart so that it can ignite flames in the hearts of the people?
— That’s an intriguing question.
Such a fire is not only made of anger or passion, but also a spiritual state born of love, rebellion against injustice, and devotion to beauty and truth. It must be a fire that gives light at the cost of burning itself.
I am reminded of the concept and work “Burning Heart” by the master Isa Muganna.
The hearth of a nation can only be lit by those who are willing to turn their own hearts into ashes.
A writer’s internal fire must stem from their love for history, culture, and dignity — and from their excitement and sense of responsibility.
As Nazim Hikmat said:
“If you don’t burn,
If I don’t burn,
If we don’t burn,
How will darkness
Ever turn into light?”
— What does “Land of Silence” mean to Akbar Goshali?
— “The Land of Silence”! — A very intriguing phrase — poetic, yet sorrowful…
It is a place where not voices, but the essence and depth are heard.
It is perhaps the place within me where the deep roots of an ancient plane tree reach.
It is neither a place where songs are sung nor where tears fall — yet traces of both live there.
It may be the abode of unwritten verses, unspoken prayers, and forgotten words.
There, it is not speech but perhaps intention that speaks.
Maybe, in that land, silence screams — yes, isn’t the depth of silence itself a cry?
Isn’t that how it is in the realm of the wise?
But so subtle, so heartfelt, that only the heart can hear that cry — the heart!
— Are there any lines of yours that have served as your tears? Could you share some of them with us?
— I’d rather not write or speak about that. If I haven’t wanted to write about it, then not speaking about it should be even more graceful…
A written word may remain known only to myself, while speech implies at least one listener. If that is the case, then the cause behind your question must truly exist — this is undeniable.
However, in the mission and mandate of literature and poetry, there is no crying for me; I would assign that to other categories.
There is hope in the nature of Turkish poetry — the kind that transforms into faith; there is perseverance, resolve.
Even when we speak of tears, we do so with heads held high, with dry eyes.
Our tears are not mere laments — the very place where they begin to resemble an elegy is our truest space for weeping, and that is exactly the place we must strive to dry.
— In your opinion, what is the greatest sorrow and the greatest treasure of Turkish poetry today?
Its greatest sorrow lies in the spiritual turbulence caused by disunity and estrangement — and the sorrow that has accumulated in our collective memory for at least the past 200 years.
We are like branches of the same tree, but often seem to forget our shared roots. Our language is one, yet at times, it feels as though our hearts need to be “translated” to one another.
Ahmet Lutfi Kazanjı is the poetic flagbearer of those who continue to speak, write, and endure amidst this fracture of hopes!
For instance, when iron curtains and official borders emerged, when one of our villages ended up on the other side of the line — while economics, politics, and even military structures may have accepted that, our poetry and art refused to do so!
We have said:
“There’s a village far away,
That village is ours.
Even if we never reach it,
Even if we never go,
It is still our village.”
And we have declared:
“We’ll cross the Caucasus,
Add glory to Turkdom!
The glorious Turkish flag
We’ll raise from land to land of Turan!”
And praise be, we have raised it!
— What kinds of silences, fears, and dreams dwell in your heart?
— What doesn’t dwell in our hearts?..
Every time injustice is done to our nation, or even to any innocent soul not from our nation, storms rage in our hearts.
Our hearts are perhaps the place where we may fool or soothe ourselves, but not others — and even if we did fool others, we would still answer to our own conscience. It is our court, and our spiritual refuge.
Alongside that, we do have fears — sometimes we witness young people growing indifferent toward their own nation, their own brothers.
At times, we see how the value of words declines, how technology wounds the spiritual force of the human being… These things are indeed troubling.
My wishes? That Turkic peoples awaken together to a shared spiritual Sun — that Turan’s children across every homeland be sung to sleep in Turkish under a shared Sky-blue flag. That our poems be read from the Altai Mountains to the Balkans. These are the blessed dreams I hold.
— What kind of literature do you think people need today?
— Literature of conscience! Not just intellectual, but moral literature!
For me, the spiritual direction of literature demands even more than intellect.
And when we write not from religious, scientific, philosophical, historical, or other specific categories, but rather in a manner that is all-encompassing, lofty, emotional, and deeply soulful — that is when the universe we speak of becomes Literature.
When everything is in its rightful place, its rightful sky and measure — people do not just become connoisseurs of aesthetic values, they become lovers of beauty.
Literature that gives joy to the reader must also nourish the soul — and must never stray from its own literary essence.
We are speaking of a literature that hears the silent screams in people’s hearts, and dares to voice them without shame.
Today’s people, in my opinion, do not find solace through technology — they seek comfort in the embrace of words that touch the soul.
And for the future, I believe that the kind of literature which unites us, reminds us of our roots, and inspires hope — that will be the literature that prevails.
— How does humanism manifest itself in your life and creative journey?
— Humanism is, in fact, the very peak and origin of sacred speech. When writing, perhaps we don’t always anticipate its full impact – its natural form can be quite raw. Yet at the very least, in the act of reading or editing, we must ask ourselves: “Will this word hurt a soul or uplift it?”
Humanism, while it can be a source of inspiration, can also bring pain. Because loving humanity is not easy – but having a heart that strives to understand others is both a gift and a trial.
— What does the Karabakh issue mean to your heart today?
— For me, Karabakh is not merely a parcel of land confined within certain coordinates – Karabakh is dignity; it is the time-tested story of our nation.
Karabakh has now become the symbol of rebirth, of spiritual revival.
Karabakh represents the new realities shaped by the Iron Fist of Azerbaijan – realities that have uplifted the entire Turkic world with renewed strength and pride.
— When you realize your words have the power to transform human hearts, what responsibilities do you place upon yourself?
— In that moment, you are no longer merely a writer – you become a bearer of meaning, accountable to the spirit, to your nation, and to the vast memory of history.
Words are like arrows, yes – but if not directed wisely, they can wound even a friend.
This responsibility demands every word I write to carry the weight of honesty, compassion, and conscience.
A writer is not only one who speaks – but one who feels deeply.
— What factors do you consider essential for literature to become a bridge of unity?
— The first and foremost factor is mutual recognition and translation.
Turkic-speaking peoples are thirsty for each other’s literature – yet the spring does not always flow…
The next crucial element is the creation of cultural platforms and the strengthening of joint projects.
But above all, the language of a shared spirit, shared pain, and shared dreams must be spoken.
Literature can absolutely be the voice of this unity – but only if we let it live as the language of the heart, not just of diplomacy.
Organizations like TÜRKSOY, the International Turkic Culture and Heritage Foundation, the International Turkic Academy, and other pan-Turkic institutions, along with robust civil society organizations, give hope to future generations, inspire belief, and open new horizons.
— What advice would you give to young writers as your “golden rule”?
— There’s an odd but thought-provoking recommendation I once read: “My advice to young people is – don’t listen to anyone’s advice.”
We too were once young, and even now, we continue to walk alongside the youth with love and humility. If we must offer something, let it not be dogma, but kindness.
First, listen to the voice of your heart – it is not an ear, nor an eye, nor a hand, not even the mind itself. The heart has its own degree, its own path, and it never deceives its owner.
Young writers should strive not just to express their voice, but to reflect the spirit of their people.
Write not to show yourself, but to show the soul. That is the sacred duty.
May the paths of our youth be open, may their pens stay sharp, and may they always be surrounded by thoughtful readers.
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Jakhongir NOMOZOV is a young poet and journalist from Uzbekistan. He is also a Member of the Azerbaijan Journalists’ Union.
