By Mehmet Emin Hazret

A Nation…

Their hope crushed,

 Their faith forbidden,

 Their voice silenced…

 But their memory — still alive.

 This is not only the story of the Uyghurs.

 This is a testimony to a destruction humanity chose to ignore.  And now, that testimony speaks.

Fear of the Police – Istanbul, 2016

The year was 2016

 I was walking through the streets of Istanbul with a fellow Uyghur who had just arrived from East Turkestan.

 Mid-conversation, he suddenly darted into a side street and vanished.

 I stood there, stunned.

 Minutes later, he returned — his hands trembling, his face pale.

 “What happened?” I asked.

 His eyes were full of tears:

 “Didn’t you see? Two police officers were walking toward us.”  I said, “They’re Turkish police. Why would that scare you?”  His voice trembled:

 “I forgot I was in Turkey.

 All my life I’ve run from Chinese police.

 Police mean prison.

 Police mean night raids, torture, false charges, disappearance…”  He was a simple shopkeeper from Karakash.

 A father sentenced to 20 years —  For praying,

For sending his child to learn the Quran,

 For helping the widow of a man labeled a terrorist.

My Father’s Funeral – 1961

That moment reopened a wound buried deep inside me.

 It was 1961

 I was in fourth grade. My mother was gone. My father was in prison.

 One day, neighbors brought him home on a donkey cart.

 Skin and bones. Unable to speak.

 A week later, he died.

 No one came to the funeral.

 Because the killers of hope had sentenced everyone to silence.

 We walked to the cemetery — just four of us:

 My brother, my sister, her husband, and I.

 Women wept quietly.

 Men swallowed their tears.

 No one dared come close.  Even grief… was a crime.

The End of Sayit Molla – 1968

The year was 1968

 The Cultural Revolution.

 Books were burned. Mosques were turned into pigsties.

 The Quran was cursed in public.

 Sayit Molla — a village imam for forty years — was made to feed pigs.

 One morning, he took his own life.

 A note was found in his pocket:

 “Suicide is forbidden in Islam.

 But when God’s house is defiled, and I am made to serve pigs,  I can no longer face my people.

 May God forgive me.

 And may you, my congregation, forgive me too.”  Women cried at his body.

 Men were silent.

 Then a Chinese official arrived.

 He forced Sayit’s son, Abdullah, to carry his father’s corpse like a sack.

He gathered the villagers in the square and forced them to chant:  “Death to Sayit Molla!”  And then he warned:

 “Anyone attending his funeral will be severely punished.”

No one walked with Abdullah as he carried his father’s body to the cemetery.  Because the killers of hope… were merciless.

My Decision to Write – 1972

That was the moment I made a vow:  If I ever became a writer,  I would write this pain.

 I would break this silence.

 And when universities reopened in 1972,  I enrolled in literature.

 Because a pen… is the voice of the silenced.

Unending Oppression – Today

China never grew tired of oppression.

 The Uyghurs never escaped their pain.

 Since 2016, a modern genocide has begun.

 According to UN records, over 8,000 mosques and places of worship have been destroyed in East Turkestan.

 Millions were sent to concentration camps.

 Not only China — some Muslim countries joined the silence.

 Some sold Uyghurs back to China for money.

 Some arrested them based on lies.

 And still…

 Uyghurs are born in fear.

 Live in fear.  Die in fear.

The Museum of the Future

There is a museum of Chinese torture in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia.

 One day, we will build such a museum in East Turkestan.

 A museum that shows the truth of China’s cruelty.

 Even Pharaoh’s tyranny came to an end.

 So will China’s.

 And the endless pain of the Uyghurs…  Will one day give way to the breath of freedom.

 We believe this.

 Because justice may delay…  But it never forgets.

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 Because with every day we stay silent, another nation is buried in darkness.

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 “To write of pain… is to resist.”