AND THE WORDS WILL BECOME MORE THAN JUST WORDS

A man whose life resembles a grand journey. Born in Baku, he graduated from the Leningrad Mining Institute and later travelled to Krasnoyarsk, where he still resides. Yet, the geography of his destiny stretches far wider: from the Arctic Circle to the Mongolian steppes, from the remotest taiga corners to international literary circles. Eldar Ahadov is a poet, writer, researcher, and author of dozens of books translated into multiple languages, as well as the organiser of literary competitions and associations. He does not merely craft poetry and prose—he builds worlds. Worlds where philosophy becomes tangible, paradox births depth, and the gaze extends not only to the present but also to eternity.

In Ahadov, we encounter a fascinating perspective of the world—one that gazes from an eternity yet to come. He is often paradoxical in the finest, Pushkinian sense; his paradoxes, as a rule, lie at profound depths. His philosophy is sensual," writes Moscow poet and writer Alexander Karpenko. We had the opportunity to speak with a man for whom literature is not merely a matter of life but life itself.

"Critics often describe your books with words like touching, vulnerable, reverent, sensual. What philosophical meaning do you believe underpins your literature?"

"Perhaps everyone writes about their own experiences: their life, love, pain... or the inner light born from that pain. I never set out to seek philosophical categories and transcribe them onto paper. I simply wrote what my memory recalled, what echoed in the voices of my Azerbaijani ancestors, what the winds of Siberia whispered. Sometimes, words arrived suddenly, like the scent of wormwood from my childhood. Other times, they came with difficulty, almost painfully, as though drawn from the depths of time.

"People tell me, 'It’s touching,' 'It hurts,' 'It revives forgotten feelings.' Maybe so. But I was merely walking a path where science and poetry, the cold of reason and the heat of the heart, converged. And over my shoulder, I always heard my native voice—sometimes in Azerbaijani, sometimes in Russian, but always with love.

"If someone finds warmth in my books, it means that warmth truly existed. If someone sees hope, it means I have not lost it myself. The rest is the reader’s task and the critics’ generosity. I only planted the words. What grows from them is not for me to decide."

"Which of your works are you most proud of, and why?"

"You know, I am proud of all my works. Not because they are flawless or perfect—far from it. But because I have never published anything I did not feel deeply about. If what I wrote failed to resonate with me, if I could not reread it with warmth, I set it aside. Sometimes forever. It is better to remain silent than to say something I might later regret.

"Each book is like a life lived. Its own time, its own worries, its own voices. Some contain more pain, others more light; some speak of homecoming, others of farewell. But all are part of my journey. If I have published something, it means I have fully lived through that text. I did not abandon it halfway, leave it in drafts, or turn away. I treat my books like children. Some grow strong and independent; others are quieter, more delicate, needing greater attention from the reader. But I do not favour any one over the others. Each carries a piece of my soul, my time, my breath. And how can one say which child they love most?"

"Beyond writing, you are a graduate of the Leningrad Mining Institute and have worked in your field all your life. Tell us about this side of your life."

"Surveying—mining engineering—was once called an art. It demands precision in navigating underground, the ability to direct mine workings, and the foresight to predict risks. This work profoundly influenced my creative output. Thanks to it, books like Крайний Север (The Far North), Ненецкий пантеон (The Nenets Pantheon), Васильковое небо Сибири (The Cornflower Sky of Siberia), and Тот самый Нансен! (That Very Nansen!) came to be.

"Alongside fiction, I have published scientific and engineering research, including articles in Marksheider’s Bulletin and Innovations and Investments, as well as works on the toponymy of Siberia and Eurasia. In 2022, my article 'On the Nature of the Universe' was published in China in an international poetry magazine.

"What does Baku mean to you? You were born in the capital of Azerbaijan and return here every year."

"What Baku is to me is captured in my book Baku-Zurbagan:

"I left Baku on the evening of June 11. But Baku has never left me. In my mind and soul, I am still there—on Fountain Square, on Torgovaya Square, in the streets of the Old City, near the Shirvanshahs’ Palace, on the boulevard, in the Alley of Martyrs... The waves of the Caspian Sea lap at my feet with a gentle, lingering murmur. The soft summer khazri brushes against my shirt like an old dacha dog, whining by the open green iron gates, frozen in anticipation of me... I am still there."

"I have never lost touch with my homeland. When Black January occurred, I flew from Siberia to Baku at the first opportunity to stand with my people.

"My books Земля моей любви (Land of My Love), the poetic tale Xarıbülbül, Azərbaycan dastanı published by Şərq-Qərb, Там, куда я вернусь… (Where I Will Return...), and Baku-Zurbagan reflect this bond. Now, my new book Cıdır düzü is ready for publication entirely in Azerbaijani."

"You are an honoured member of the Writers’ Union of Azerbaijan. How did your relationship with this organisation begin, and how has it developed?"

"It began with long-standing ties. As a schoolboy in the mid-1970s, I attended literary meetings at the Youth of Azerbaijan newspaper office. After graduating from the Leningrad Mining Institute and returning to Baku, I actively participated in the literary association under the Central Committee of the Komsomol, led by Vladimir Gafarov. Gafarov’s father hailed from Sabirabad, like mine, so our families knew one another.

"In March 1986, at Gafarov’s dacha in Shuvalan, I met the great Suleyman Rustam. The gathering celebrated his 80th birthday—the sound of the sea, the wind, and the voice of the author of 'My Tabriz,' a poem that captures the soul of every Azerbaijani.

"In those years, I worked as a freelance correspondent for Молодёжь Азербайджана (Youth of Azerbaijan), publishing since 1978. My first publication—translations of Shakespeare’s sonnets—appeared in the autumn of 1976 in Baku State University’s newspaper. Throughout the 1980s, my articles and poems were featured in Баку (Baku), Вышка (Rig Derrick), Бакинский рабочий (Baku Worker), Молодёжь Азербайджана, and the magazine Литературный Азербайджан (Literary Azerbaijan). In 1989, the almanac Юные голоса (Young Voices), compiled by Vladimir Gafarov, was published by Ganjlik, opening with my works.

"Moving to Siberia did not sever my connection to Azerbaijan—the USSR was a unified country, and the idea of 'leaving Azerbaijan' simply did not exist in the mindset of the time. But the political upheavals of the 1990s shattered that unity.

"My recent reconnection with the Writers’ Union of Azerbaijan began with a dialogue with Tofig Melikli, a distinguished literary scholar and orientalist who founded the Chair of Slavic Studies at the Istanbul University. In 2018, he invited me to speak at the Natavan Hall of the Writers’ Union. By then, I had been a member of the Krasnoyarsk Writers’ Organisation for 20 years and had won numerous literary prizes in Russia, Germany, Sweden, Italy, Spain, China, and Venezuela.

"My works, interviews, and articles about me have appeared in Ədəbiyyat və incəsənət (Literature and Arts), Palitra News, Xalq (People), Бакинский рабочий, Неделя (Week). Azerbaijan, the magazine Fortuna, and the portal Baku..."

"Do you have a literary impression of modern Baku?"

"I have many friends in the literary world and beyond. I’ve met Günel Anar-gizi and spoken at the Baku Book Centre. I’ve conversed with writers Anar, Chingiz Abdullayev, Varis Yolchuyev, Dünya ədəbiyyatı (World of Literature) editor-in-chief Elmar Sheykhzade, poet and archivist Marat Shafiyev, Baku history expert Fuad Akhundov, Professor Flora Naghi, Baku Worker’s Abulfaz Babazade, Vətən (Homeland) editor Namig Muradov, writer and translator Sabina Ulukhanova, publisher Sevil Ismayilova, artist Eldar Babazade, as well as Israfil Ismayilov, Alviz Aliyev, Lala Hasanova, and many other talented individuals. The literary world of Azerbaijan—its culture and art—does not stand still. It evolves and bears magnificent fruit. This brings me great joy."

"Does writing bring you tangible rewards in life?"

"Absolutely. They may not always be monetary, but the rewards are constant and depend on how people perceive my work. Here’s a recent example: I have two silver medals from 2019 that had tarnished over time. I took them to a jeweller for cleaning and mentioned why I’d received them. When I returned the next day, he admitted he’d read my work online and was so moved that he refused payment—even polishing the cloth pads!

"Another instance: in the Far North, a taxi driver, upon learning who I was, declined payment for the ride from the airport, though the fare was substantial. Writing earns respect for talent—if one possesses it, of course."

"How do you feel about literary prizes and creative competitions? You’ve won many awards—do you share the superstitions some participants hold?"

"I take it calmly, whether I win or not. Allah’s will prevails. Of course, recognition is gratifying, but the greatest reward has already been granted to each of us: life itself. After all, for myriad reasons, it might not have been."

"What is the most memorable criticism you’ve received about your books? And how do you handle detractors and trolls—do you engage, ignore, or take it to heart?"

"I strive not to dwell on negativity. With time, one realises that a person’s purpose is not to argue, defend, or explain themselves, but to leave behind light—in words, deeds, and silence.

"Some have spoken unkindly of me—it happens. But I bear no grudges. Many who sought to wound me are no longer alive, and I take no pleasure in that. I simply believe everything returns. I did not invent these laws, nor do I determine truth. Allah governs time, fate, and retribution—without my interference or complaint.

"I do not fight or justify myself. I prefer to answer not with words but with a new book. And if even one person finds value in it, then nothing has been in vain."

"What three major flaws would you identify in yourself?"

"Ah, if only there were just three. I carry a host of flaws—some quiet and patient, lurking in the shadows; others noisy and cantankerous, making their presence known daily. If I were to name only three, the others might take offence. And offended inner demons are not to be trifled with—they are vindictive. They retaliate in their own ways: through reticence, weariness, laziness, or unexpected means.

"So I choose honesty. I acknowledge them all, without favouritism. Let them coexist peacefully. And I will manage, somehow. I strive to let the part of me that still writes, dreams, and believes in goodness prevail—at least occasionally."

"What time of day do you prefer for writing? Do you have rituals to set the mood?"

"I write when compelled. Sometimes, words arrive unexpectedly, and I halt everything to capture them before they vanish. But mostly, I write at night—not from love of insomnia, but because night is the only time the world falls silent.

"By day, there are calls, messages, demands. The world is loud, bustling, insistent. At night, silence reigns. People sleep. The city stills. Even the wind fades. You are alone with yourself—no distractions, no obligations. Just you, a blank screen, or an empty page. In those hours, words come with rare honesty. So I have no rituals—except, perhaps, silence itself."

"Do you have unfinished works you will likely never share? What are they about, and why remain incomplete?"

"No. I never abandon what I start. To me, every line is a promise to myself. If I begin writing, it must be finished—if not today, then eventually. Some works are arduous, requiring pauses, sometimes lengthy. But this is not surrender. It is merely a breath between words.

"I cannot write 'at the desk' casually. If a thought comes, it comes for a reason, and I must see it through. If I cannot, the time is not right—and so I do not begin. Perhaps this stems from inner discipline. Or, if you prefer, respect for the word."

"What is your writing dream? Is there an image, character, or event you long to explore but haven’t yet?"

"Whether it can be realised rests with Allah. Man has no right to decide such matters. But I dream of uniting writers and poets worldwide in the cause of peace. For peace, I believe, is born first in human souls. Literature, culture, art—these are the most potent tools to shape minds, perceptions, and values. What captures minds soon becomes reality.

"It is for this idea that we, writers and poets from diverse nations, founded the World Organisation of Writers (WOW). Margarita Al (Almukhametova), a woman of boundless energy and optimism, leads it. As head of WOW’s Coordinating Council, I engage with hundreds of writers globally, even from places as remote as Barbados, Mauritius, Cape Verde, or São Tomé and Príncipe.

"Wherever books are written, we find interlocutors and allies. The first WOW congress was held in Abuja, Nigeria, in spring 2024. The second will take place in Moscow this September. And I truly believe our mission transcends mere meetings or literary exchange—it is a step toward making words about peace more than just words."