Award-winning Kurdish-German author Karosh Taha likes to push literary boundaries. Shedding light on a community that has seen precious little representation in German society, Taha takes up the mantle of an emerging literary icon, entirely recognising its responsibility by providing centre-stage to the stories from her community. Her unsettling novel In the Belly of the Queen is told from the perspective of two teenagers, Amal and Raffiq, and can be read from both ends of the book.
By Prathap Nair
It’s the story of a rebellious teenager, Amal, who gets in trouble for manhandling her male classmate. Amal, who already feels like an outcast in school, finds solace in her father’s assertion that she needs to stand up for herself. The relief is short-lived as her father disappears. Subsequently, Amal finds comfort from an adult woman, Shahira, who too has defied society’s expectations. In the Belly of the Queen is centred around these women who dared to challenge the norms patriarchy had chalked out for them.
What emerges is a broader picture of a community replete with themes of societal alienation, stifling patriarchy and embattled womanhood. “Kurdish people don’t immigrate,” Taha tells us, because they have been political refugees for generations together, persecuted as they are by multiple oppressors. That is also true for Taha, whose parents fled to Germany from Zaxo in the Kurdistan Region in the 1980s.
With her novel, Taha lifts the lid on identity politics surrounding Kurdish Germans – what it means to be Kurdish in Germany – a theme rarely discussed, hence unique in contemporary German literature. Grashina Gabelmann, the translator, preserves the original’s empathetic prose, ensuring a narrative cutting in its sharpness and powerful in its effect.
In this interview, Taha tells us more about the book.
Your book is a coming-of-age novel that draws from your background as a Kurdish German. Would you say it is one of the first novels to focus on the Kurdish immigrant experience in Germany?
I’m afraid there are only a handful of writers with different backgrounds in the German literary scene. In the 90s, some Eastern European authors were published due to the significance of their work and political events around that time. A historical deal between Germany and Turkey in the fifties and sixties brought in a few Turkish writers and creatives. Among these so-called “Gastarbeiter” (migrant workers) were many Kurdish workers whose existence was denied by their coworkers. As for the literary scene, there are only a few writers with a Kurdish background, and most are from my generation. Despite receiving highly regarded prizes in other non-European countries, many Kurdish writers remain unpublished in Germany. From the older generation, Bachtyar Ali has received acknowledgement, with his novels being published in German -and other European countries.
How does the experience of Kurdish people in German society differ from that of other communities?
Unlike many immigrant communities, Kurdish people are mostly political refugees who have fled persecution by Turkish, Iraqi, Iranian, and Syrian officials, and hunted down by fascists. This contrasts with other immigrant groups who did not have to flee. While Kurdish individuals also experience some German racism, they often face additional animosity from other more dominant groups, especially Turkish immigrants.
Were your childhood experiences significant in sketching out the characters in your book, particularly Shahira?
Everyone has a Shahira in their life – whether it is in the past or present. Women like Shahira face immense struggles, yet they are the most precious, strong and vulnerable people you will encounter. They hold strong opinions, values and standards, and question societal norms, especially when these ethics oppress a certain group - in this case, women expressing their sexuality. In our neighbourhood too, there was a Shahira. She didn’t have an easy life, but I did not write about her. I don’t like fictionalising real people; this has never worked for me. Even if I intend, fiction eventually overpowers reality.
The strong drive to create such characters occurred when I realised the limitations in language to express one’s experiences. Shahira was also born from this realisation that she exists despite the language refusing her existence. She defies description because we are still searching for the right language to describe her. This is why I decided to tell two different stories since one perspective could not grasp her impact on people.
There is quite a bit of testosterone in the narrative with bullying, football, boxing, etc., when the story revolves around Raffiq and Younes, while Amal is frustrated and stands on the sidelines. Can you tell us about these gendered boundaries you are exploring in the book?
It is mostly about society’s perception and expectation – how strict and limited they are when it comes to gender and sexuality. We don’t see people with their needs, wishes and desires. Instead, we categorise them in ways that disable and restrict them from showing who they are, what they want to become, or even just exploring certain aspects of their personality. Our patriarchal society particularly refuses the idea that men could be physically weak; the image of the ideal man is destructive and prevents us as a society from evolving.
Did you have to grapple with exposing certain imaginary fault lines in writing about your own community as an immigrant? (I wonder, since the Kurdish community in Germany is relatively small. As in any immigrant community, negative portrayals could be detrimental to its welfare. Did you have these considerations?)
This question itself exposes people’s perception on this issue. As a Kurd and a writer, I did not focus on how my background might negatively influence people’s views. Like every other group, Kurdish people are multifaceted. This romanticised image of Kurds as rebels and highly problematic depiction of them as victims is ineligible if you aim to depict a serious portrayal of people.
Are you familiar with Indian literature in English? If so, have you read anything that caught your attention lately?
Unfortunately, no. However, Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses was crucial for me as a writer to become bold and challenge people’s dogma. I also admired his essays in Imaginary Homelands which helped me understand diasporic societies and belief systems.
Translator Diaries: Grashina Gabelmann on her experience translating In the Belly of the Queen
As I read In the Belly of the Queen for the first time, I knew I would be its translator. I started with Amal’s story, without any particular reason. I read her story rather quickly; the absence of speech marks, the run-on sentences, and the sharpness of her observations made me pick up the pace as a reader. I almost immediately began translating sentences in my head while reading, which hadn’t been the plan. The unconventional flow that Karosh managed to establish for her character Amal is so powerful and determined that I was in the character’s mind from the moment I picked up the book.
Reflecting on my translation process, I can say...it just is. I dove into the language of Karosh’s characters and never came back up for air until I was done. I translated both sections in one go without rereading what I had written. I only began reviewing my work once everything was finished. Amal and Raffiq’s flow is so unique that it drew me right in, and I stayed in the flow. Both characters are extremely bold, and I absorbed this boldness as I read and translated their stories.
Karosh Taha, born in 1987 in Zaxo, Iraq, has lived in Germany since 1997. Her essays have appeared in various literary magazines. In the Belly of the Queen is her second novel and won her the Alfred Döblin Prize. Karosh Taha lives in Cologne.
