Collective Suffering

Poetry by Sodéh Negintaj. Translated from Persian by Ali Asadollahi.

Mar 23, 2026

Editor’s Note: On January 25, poet, writer, and translator Ali Asadollahi was arrested in Tehran by agents of the Ministry of Intelligence. As PEN America notes, “His detention on undisclosed charges signals a worsening campaign of intimidation and violence against writers amid the state’s brutal crackdown on protestors.”

We are republishing a translation of Ali’s, which first appeared in Consequence Volume 16.2, as a means to amplify his voice and inform the international literary community about his detention.

UPDATE: From PEN America’s Instagram on March 18: “PEN America is relieved to hear that jailed poet and translator Ali Asadollahi was temporarily released on bail in Iran on Monday after nearly two months in detention.”

Translator’s Note: The late Iranian poet, Baktash Abtin is most remembered for his unique character and courage in standing up to the government’s harassments of writers and intellectuals. He was a member of the Iranian Writers Association, an organization formed in 1968 with the aim of defending freedom of expression. Abtin never hesitated to advocate for this cause even in the face of constant threats and imprisonment. In September 2020, he was taken to prison to serve a six-year sentence. In December 2021, he caught COVID and due to the authority’s neglect, on January 8, 2022, he passed away in hospital. There is an iconic photograph of him in the hospital where his hand and feet are chained to the bed as he reads a book. His death, considered murder by many, shocked the Iranian public and inspired many poets to protest the tragedy by composing poetry in his memory.

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          In memory of Baktash Abtin, the glorious monster of Persian poetry

Sparkling wistful soul
You thought that suffering was the discreet charm of the bourgeoisie
But when a crowd of people are suffering all together at once, it seems something is broken
A crowd of people are being buried while they lie on a replica of the earth and look for their plastic homeland
You think suffering is the charm of the bourgeoisie
Suffering is a pounding IV swelling in your left hand
It’s the gas pump’s black hose of wealth that penetrates all the gas tanks the same way.
In Karaj, it’s something that penetrates the skull of a boy on the street
In Shiraz, it’s something that seeps into the wrestling mat
It enters the most private stiches on your bedsheet
It is a drink you sip slowly to perish
They want you to perish
You won’t
You know there are things not to hear
But things amassed are never-ending
And you know suffering is splendid when it’s collective
And you know suffering becomes a mother when it’s collective
In the bakery line, in the dog land, as people shove, they carry the stench of each other’s sweat in their skulls for years
And this is a collective ruin
How could you be ruined and splendid?
How could you be hungry and not helpless?
How could the sufferings combined still sparkle?
They stare at each other and sparkle
They stand against each other and sparkle
They fight against each other and sparkle
How could a girl with two black eyes on TV plead guilty and stare?
How could they, arm in arm, throw a woman’s shadow on the asphalt and stare at it?
How could you go back to the era of bourgeois writing and climb your words out of pain
It’s not anyone’s fault that you have withdrawn
It’s not anyone’s fault that you’re torn apart
Your fingers are stuck together by the blood cloths in the veins of your friends
Your friend!
this time and first time friend
You wake up and years later, you watch him sitting on the clinic cot like a king on his throne With iron ankle cuffs and a little book in his hands
And in the striped prison uniform like the scribbled sky of his dreams
It makes you laugh
On social media, there is only a stylish picture that cannot be touched
It’s noisy
You can’t look at it
You can’t be upset with it
Everyone devours each other
A beautiful beast!
A beautiful beast with glasses wobbles on his bicycle in Kish Island
In the COVID ambulance, he stands over you and
pisses on all these years of poetry and leaves
This image destroys you
The Writer’s block gets to you
The blood runs through you
You turn away and stare at the death of the poet in the Sasan hospital
And suffering, great suffering, is stuttering
It’s a large crowd trapped to the bone under blood and scrap metal
There are also things not to write
There are also things on the street
There are also things,
Things that save you