17 December marks the 79th anniversary of the genocide committed against Southern Azerbaijanis by the Tehran regime during its occupation of S. Azerbaijan and the overthrow of the Azerbaijan People’s Republic in 1946.

During this invasion, carried out by the Persian Army and supported by around 140 U.S.A bombers widespread vandalism and destruction were inflicted upon Southern Azerbaijan. An estimated 35,000 Southern Azerbaijani civilians were killed, and more than 100,000 people were exiled or disappeared.

The late William O. Douglas, Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court, addressed these events in his book Strange Lands and Friendly People. He described the actions of the Iranian army in Azerbaijan as acts of vandalism and genocide, comparing their behavior to that of Nazi soldiers in France. These events are collectively remembered as the Genocide in Southern Azerbaijan.

Azerbaijani Poet, Samad Vurgun’s poem dedicated to the memory of the Genocide in South Azerbaijan.

Executioner

Executioner, the books you burned in piles and heaps—
They are the fame of a thousand minds, the desire of a thousand hearts.
We depart from this world, but they remain as heritage,
They are the fame of a thousand minds, the desire of a thousand hearts.

Look closely at those books you burned—they ignite again.
Their flames rise, casting dawn into the darkness.
The noble souls of poets rise from their graves
And bless a heroic nation, great in love.
Those flames rise, casting dawn into the darkness.

Executioner, in my language live bayatis and qoşmas,
Tell me—did your stone heart ever hear them?
Behind every gerayli verse beats a thousand mothers’ hearts,
Every broken melody is the cry of a sacred wish.
Tell me—did your stone heart ever hear them?

Tell me, do you despise the language of my poetry?
It is the ancient East’s pride—Fuzuli’s ghazals.
Is it you who calls my nation “mule Turks”?
Azerbaijan’s beauty has nursed geniuses at her breast.
It is the ancient East’s pride—Fuzuli’s ghazals.

Executioner, though desires burn, they never turn to ash.
Nature’s mother-heart never gave birth to slaves.
Every heart has its own world, its own longing for happiness;
Every epic of freedom is written in blood.
Nature’s mother-heart never gave birth to slaves.

From the very beginning, my enemy has been filthy darkness.
Every land has its own love, every nation its own name.
I would not trade my honor for the universe, even for a moment—
I am the sun-clad child of the Land of Fire.
Every land has its own love, every nation its own name.

What are those gallows—who are the ones being hanged?
Does the rightful voice of my homeland sound like a toy to you?
Stop—stop! An awakened lion walks in every heart;
Its mighty claws will seize you by the throat.
Does the rightful voice of my homeland sound like a toy to you?

Executioner, do you also slaughter the generation of fedai fighters?
The blood you drink like a wolf is my nation’s pure blood.
The time will come—I already hear its footsteps:
The rebellious spirit of the martyrs will seize you by the collar.
The blood you drink like a wolf is my nation’s pure blood.

Be ashamed before me with your pages of falsified history.
Did not my mother Tomyris sever the head of Cyrus?
I wear the crowns of Koroghlu and Sattar Khan upon my head;
My generations will not leave one stone upon another.
Did not my mother Tomyris sever the head of Cyrus?

Spur your horse—ride at full gallop, the stage is yours for now;
But I see spring approaching, dressed in red.
This land where I was born is the sun of the ancient East;
I raised the generation of red-flag revolutions.
I see spring approaching, dressed in red.