The desire to understand the human being is the beginning of writing for me – Rəşhad Majİd
[Our guest today is Rəşhad Majid, a prominent figure in modern Azerbaijani literature — journalist, writer, poet, Honored Cultural Worker of the Republic of Azerbaijan, Chairman of the Press Council of Azerbaijan, Editor-in-Chief of the newspaper “525-ci qəzet,” and Deputy Chairman of the Azerbaijan Writers’ Union.]
Interviewed by Jakhongir NOMOZOV | Uzbekistan
What are the greatest challenges in artistically conveying and adapting the truth in modern journalism?
— In fact, this is one of journalism’s oldest and most difficult undertakings. On one hand, there are facts — seemingly immutable. On the other hand, there are feelings, emotional impact, and the desire to touch the reader. When the truth is presented dryly, it’s not engaging; when it’s exaggerated, it loses credibility. That’s why balancing these two layers — delivering information and embedding it with artistic value — requires deep responsibility.
In my view, the greatest challenge lies not in the journalist’s position, but in their intent. Nowadays, whether knowingly or not, journalists often sacrifice truth for speed or for viewership numbers. Yet presenting the truth is both a matter of professionalism and of conscience. The artistic approach should be guided by the light of sincerity — truth must be illuminated, not embellished.
So, the challenge is not merely technical; it is also a moral dilemma. When you write a piece, are you touching the reader’s mind, or are you manipulating it?
How are your philosophical views on the human soul and life reflected in your creative work?
— For me, writing begins with the desire to understand the human being. Whether in journalism, poetry, or reflective prose, I always try to descend into the depths of the human soul. At the heart of all events stands the human being — their feelings, fears, desires, loneliness, and quests.
Writing, for me, is an attempt to shed light on the inner world of a person. While my outlook on life has changed over time, one truth remains constant: the human being is a creature engaged in an eternal inner battle. Sometimes we don’t see it, sometimes we choose not to see it — but if writing is sincere, this struggle reveals itself.
In my work, I try to depict humans both as heroes and as fallible beings. Life itself is a mixture of light and shadow. Literature and journalism are, at their core, attempts to interpret the human soul and to empathize with it. To me, the philosophy of writing lies here: the reader must find themselves in your lines. If they don’t, then the writing has no real meaning.
How would you describe Azerbaijani culture and traditions? What role do they play in your creative work?
— Azerbaijani culture is not limited to folklore, traditional clothing, or ancient musical instruments. It is a way of life, a memory, and a set of behavioral codes shaped and tested by time.
In my opinion, Azerbaijani culture is reflected in the gaze of an elderly man standing under ancient plane trees and in the thoughts of a young person trying to preserve their identity amid the chaos of modern urban life. Traditions are our moral compass — the yalli dance at weddings, the pilaf at festive tables, the reverence for speech in gatherings — these all form parts of our spiritual coordinate system.
These values are what distinguish us from others — they are what make us who we are. In my writing, I strive to preserve and present this cultural memory. Sometimes I reference a proverb or folk saying; sometimes I create a character grounded in our national worldview. Even in a news article, this cultural spirit can be conveyed. Because culture defines how we express ourselves, how we relate to words, and even how we remain silent.
Azerbaijan’s cultural identity is the invisible essence on my writing desk. Without it, my writing would lose its flavor.
What are the most effective ways to transform society through literature and art?
— Literature and art do not directly change society — they neither pass laws nor issue decrees. But their impact is deeper, quieter, and more lasting: they change our thinking. They alter how people view the world, each other, and themselves.
In my view, the most effective way to transform society is to awaken a question within a person, to write a sentence that shakes them, to create a character that touches their conscience. Literature is a mirror, not just to reflect, but to provoke thought. Art is memory — not merely to preserve the past, but to shape the future.
If a piece of writing does not move the reader, if a film or painting does not touch some delicate chord within us, it cannot have the power to create change. I’ve always believed that the writer is a kind of conscience for society — sometimes silent, sometimes shouting, sometimes questioning… but never mute.
Changing society through literature is a long, patient, and mostly invisible path. But if one chooses that path, it must be walked with sincerity and faith.
What philosophical outlooks have left the deepest mark on your poetry and prose? How have they changed your life?
— For me, writing is a continuation of inner searching. Both poetry and prose are ways to achieve self-understanding. Over time, I’ve been influenced by various philosophical perspectives, but the most profound ones have concerned the transience of human life, the relentless flow of time, and the fragile nature of memory.
I often touch upon the silence of time in my poetry. Time is like a silent witness, and we are the sounds trying to leave traces within it. This view has taught me both to accept life and to deepen within it, rather than resist it.
In prose, I’ve been especially drawn to the inner fragmentation of human beings, their internal dialogues, and their duplicity. The more I try to understand humanity, the more I transform myself. Every character, every line I write, carries a piece of my own inner world.
These philosophical reflections have shaped not just my writing, but my way of life. For example, I now respond to events more calmly. I try to approach things not with anger, but with understanding.
What are your thoughts on the commonalities and differences between Uzbek and Azerbaijani literature?
— Uzbek and Azerbaijani literature are like two brothers born of the same parents but raised in different lands. At the root of both lie Turkic national consciousness, oral folk traditions, epic memory, and Sufism. When one reads Navoi and Nizami, one witnesses how the same spirit finds expression in different tongues.
We share many common traits: both literatures are grounded in emotion, sincerity, rhythm, and spiritual values. Themes such as love, homeland, truth, and justice are central in both traditions. Writers and poets from both nations have strived to preserve the soul of their people through words — capturing their pain, joy, and history. In this sense, what unites us is not just linguistic kinship, but a deeper bond of shared fate.
Naturally, there are differences too. Azerbaijani literature has developed more within the cultural sphere of the Caucasus, where Eastern and Western elements intertwine. Uzbek literature, on the other hand, bears stronger imprints of the vastness of Central Asia, the legacy of great empires, and the more rigid ideological pressures of the Soviet period. Alongside the harmony between classical poetry and folk language, Uzbek literature sometimes reflects more intense ideological tensions.
Yet, at the heart of both lies a shared heritage: a belief in the power of the word, respect for art, and a deep conviction that literature is the conscience of the nation. I believe this is the greatest treasure we hold in common.
Could you share your views on humility and humanity? What role do these values play in your creative work and personal life?
— Humility is not merely a behavioral trait — it is a posture distilled from the deepest layers of the soul. To me, humility is not about stepping back knowingly, but about knowing how and where to use your voice when you have one. It’s not about denying yourself, but about truly knowing yourself. Humanity is the beginning of that self-awareness. If a person is indifferent to another’s pain, no matter how high they stand, they are defeated.
These values have always been both a theme and a stance in my writing. I have always desired that my words evoke a silent tremor in the reader — that they cause the reader to walk in someone else’s shoes, to see pain differently, to think a little less about themselves and more about others. Whether in an article, a poem, or a single line, reflecting the breath of these values is, for me, both an aesthetic and moral responsibility.
In my personal life, I’ve tried to adhere to these principles as well. My first rule when interacting with people is this: never forget who you are, but never belittle anyone else either. When someone talks too much or insists too often, it usually means there’s a hidden emptiness within. I prefer to confront such voids through humility, silence, and observation.
How do you perceive the balance between one’s inner world and public life in today’s world?
— One of the greatest paradoxes of our modern world is the chasm between a person’s inner world and their outer existence. On one side, there’s technology, speed, an overflow of information, and a social life filled with masks. On the other side, there’s a weary soul, unanswered questions, silent loneliness, and the yearning for stillness. In my view, this balance has long been broken. People are striving to be seen, yet they fear losing themselves in the process.
Those who smile daily on social media might be going through the darkest seasons of their lives. Some of the most talkative people in society are those who suffer the deepest silences within. People are now forced to live with this tension between their inner and outer selves. But if one cannot hear their inner voice, all the roles they play in public eventually become meaningless.
In both my writing and my personal life, I try to preserve this balance. On one hand, there’s the necessity to stay attuned to society’s pulse, to respond to events, to speak up. On the other, there’s the need to withdraw inward, to reflect, to be silent, to listen to oneself. Finding the transition between these two states, I believe, must become a core skill of the modern human being. Only those who find silence within can withstand the noise outside.
In your view, what is spiritual maturity and inner freedom?
— To me, spiritual maturity is not merely a religious or mystical concept; it is about making peace with oneself — recognizing and rising above your passions, fears, and petty ambitions. Maturity is not about being faultless but about acknowledging your faults, taking responsibility, and learning from them. If a person can accept their weaknesses, they are already strong. For true spiritual strength lies not in loud declarations but in inner stillness.
Inner freedom is a miracle in itself. It is the courage to know what you want and to say what you don’t — without fear. It is living beyond the expectations of others, outside the molds of society, and yet existing without harming anyone. I believe inner freedom is the ability to be truly honest with your own conscience — not resisting that voice, but living in harmony with it.
Every writer carries within them the longing for both spiritual maturity and inner freedom. Writing itself is often the product of that quest. Over time, I’ve come to understand that a soul that isn’t free cannot write freely. A pen that fears cannot speak truth. And even the most poetic conscience, if silenced, cannot touch the reader. Maturity is a lifelong journey — perhaps the goal is not even to arrive, but to walk that path with dignity.
What personal principles do you follow to avoid drifting away from humanity after gaining fame and recognition?
— Fame often appears to people as a dazzling peak. But in truth, it is more of a testing ground than a summit. As a person becomes more recognized, the world around them may not change, but their relationship with the world does. That change either uplifts the person or, unfortunately, drags them to the depths. I have established a few personal principles to avoid crossing that dangerous boundary.
The first principle is to never forget yourself. Remember where you came from, your first sentence, your first thrill. Sometimes, fame alters one’s memory. But I strive never to forget that first reader — the one who looked at my words with sincere eyes.
The second is to maintain humility in interactions with others. If one day a taxi driver tells you they’ve read your piece, it’s not just a moment of pride — it’s also a responsibility. We come from the heart of the people, and we shall return there. Recognition is just a stage, not the destination.
The third, and most crucial principle, is to master silence. Responding to every comment, reacting to every criticism — these are the traps of fame. Silence is often the strongest way to protect oneself and remain human. I consider silence to be as valuable as words.
Balancing creative work with everyday life is not easy. As a “poet,” “writer,” and “person,” how do you maintain that balance?
— Maintaining a balance between creative work and everyday life is difficult — but possible. To me, the essential thing is for a writer to remain human above all. Being a poet or writer is not about thinking of yourself as one, but about experiencing every moment, every encounter, every feeling as a human being. Creating and writing are parts of life, but they are not life itself.
Sometimes, everyday life teaches us the most. A person’s greatest teacher is themselves, those around them, and the lessons hidden in ordinary experiences. Even as a writer, I strive never to overlook life. Because forgetting how to be human is the very thing that obstructs creativity.
What role do family, friendship, compassion, and kindness play in your creative and personal life?
— Family, friendship, compassion, and kindness have always been the cornerstones of both my creative and personal life. My family is my greatest source of inspiration. Every line I write, every thought I form, every act of goodness I witness stems from the values instilled in me by my family. Friendship is the mirror of the soul — it reflects one’s most genuine side.
Compassion and humanity are not just themes in my writing — they are the essence of my life. I believe a literary figure should not only be known for their works, but also for who they are as a person.
Humanity, kindness, friendship, and family — these are all interconnected values. Without them, both creativity and life itself would lose their depth and meaning.
Where does the boundary between innovation and tradition in art begin and end?
— Innovation and tradition are two concepts in art that constantly complement each other, though at times they may appear contradictory. I believe this boundary is neither rigid nor fixed—it shifts depending on the context, the spirit of the time, and the creator’s intent.
Tradition is the memory of art, its root. Without it, art hangs suspended in air. Innovation, on the other hand, is the breath and the soul. If we remain bound to tradition and merely repeat it, art risks dying. Yet if we abandon tradition entirely and sever our roots, the value of a work may also be lost.
I believe innovation becomes most impactful when it is born from tradition. That’s where the boundary begins—how do you transform your roots while remaining loyal to them? Where do you preserve tradition, and where do you break free from it? The answers to these questions determine the true quality of art.
Sometimes poets and journalists are tempted to step away from humility and seek self-promotion. How do you protect yourself from such tendencies, and what inner principles help you maintain your humility?
— It’s true that both poets and journalists naturally seek recognition—to be heard, to be visible. But this need can sometimes work against humility and cause a person to lose their inner balance. I try to begin with demanding more from myself, not from others. With every piece I write, I ask myself: is there truth in these lines, or is it just display?
One way to preserve humility is to remember that everything is temporary. Applause today may be forgotten tomorrow. Fame may shine one day and fade the next. But if the voice within you stays constant—if you remain the same person inside—that’s the greatest form of stability.
Also, I believe a person’s true worth is determined by time, not by self-declaration. That’s why I try to stay consistent and sincere in my work, without much noise or show. Humility is a form of sincerity, a kind of inner trust. And to not stray from this path, I constantly look at myself through the mirror of conscience.
What are your goals in creating literary works that serve as a bridge between Azerbaijani and world literature?
— For me, building a bridge between Azerbaijani and world literature is not just a literary goal—it is a spiritual mission. I truly believe that the voice, thought, and worldview of every nation can only reach humanity through literature and translation.
Our folklore, myths, and way of life—all of these are deep and original enough to have a place in global literature. What’s needed is the right language and the right lens through which to present them.
_____________________
Jakhongir NOMOZOV Is a young poet and journalist from Uzbekistan. He is also a Member of the Union of Journalists of Azerbaijan and the World Young Turkic Writers Union.
