Hamid Reza Mohajerani on the shared heritage of Farsi and Arabic

In an interview with Al Majalla, the Iranian writer and translator explains why he learned Arabic, its similarities and differences with Farsi, and how politics can stifle creativity

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Iranian writer and translator Hamid Reza Mohajerani

Hamid Reza Mohajerani on the shared heritage of Farsi and Arabic

Abdul Rahman Mazhar Halloush

last update on 07 Oct 2025

In the realm of translation, Iranian writer and translator Hamid Reza Mohajerani stands out as a bridge between Arabic and Persian literature, owing to his extensive work translating contemporary Arabic novels into Farsi. Among the Arab authors whose works he has translated are Amin Maalouf, Elias Khoury, and Waciny Laredj.

Speaking to Al Majalla, Mohajerani explained how he saw the translator’s role in fostering cultural exchange between Arabs and Persians, two geographically adjacent yet culturally distinct societies. He also mused on the challenges of translating Arabic texts into Farsi, alongside broader issues relating to the state of culture, censorship, and intellectual life in Iran. Here is the conversation.

Why did you pursue the field of translation?

From an early age, I was captivated by both nature and literature. I ran barefoot through the meadows by the river near our village, reciting verses from the great Persian poets. Although I was too young to fully comprehend the meaning, I instinctively felt that literature and poetry were sacred, offering a sense of peace and serenity. My passion deepened after attending congregational prayers at our village mosque, where I heard the imam reciting verses by the lyrical poet Hafez of Shiraz. It made me realise the intimate connection between heaven and earth—a thread linking the cosmos to poetry.

How did your relationship with the Arabic language begin?

Arabic and Farsi are like adopted sisters. There are two wings of the bird that are Islamic civilisation. Throughout the history of this civilisation, we encounter numerous brilliant figures who mastered both languages, including Avicenna, Nur al-Din Abd al-Rahman Jami, Jalal al-Din Rumi, and the Turkish Sufi scholar Sadr al-Din al-Qunawi. Each left a lasting legacy in science, literature, medicine, and philosophy.

I consider myself a child of both Persian and Islamic civilisations. You need to master both Arabic and Farsi to truly engage with the likes of Marzban-nameh, The Complete Works of Saadi, The Divan E Shams E Tabrizi, The History by Abu’l-Fadl Bayhaqi, or The History of the World Conqueror by Juvayni. This was a powerful personal motivation for me to learn Arabic. Arabs need to learn Farsi and Persians need to learn Arabic because both are part of a shared heritage: the Islamic civilisation.

Did you face any challenges when translating from Arabic into Farsi?

Certainly. Despite shared elements between the two languages—whether in vocabulary, structure, proverbs, or poetic expression—there are deep differences that arise from the distinct cultural and traditional landscapes of Arab and Persian societies. Cultural ties between the two date back to the Sassanid era (226–651 CE) and continue to this day.

The language of the novel is not merely literary; it is something greater. It is the language of love. This often draws me back to the works and verses of leading figures in Persian literature, such as Mawlana Jalal al-Din Rumi, Hafez of Shiraz, and the great humanist poet Saadi of Shiraz. I turn to their poetry and timeless wisdom to help convey the deeper meanings embedded within challenging texts.

How do you handle Arabic words or expressions that lack a direct equivalent in Farsi?

I translate colloquial or dialectal phrases in novels using the vernaculars spoken in southern Iranian regions, such as Khuzestan and other areas inhabited by our Arab compatriots. For example, when translating The Bird Tattoo (2020) by Iraqi author Dunya Mikhail—which is set in Kurdish regions of Iraq, including Sinjar—I incorporated Kurdish terms and referenced local traditions, which I then explained in footnotes. This let me highlight certain cultural and ethnic commonalities between our Kurdish compatriots in western Iran and the Kurds of Iraq.

Do you use electronic translation tools? If so, to what extent?

I never rely on AI-generated machine translation. AI (artificial intelligence) is a product of the human mind; it can never rival it. I advise my students not to depend on machine translation, as it merely provides literal word equivalents, with no regard for the emotions or nuances, elements shaped by human intellect. This is why artificial translation will never threaten the human mind or its spirit.

You’ve translated works by numerous Arab authors and thinkers. Is there a particular text that left a profound impact on you?

Those whose works I have translated are pioneers of human thought, bright stars in the sky of Islamic civilisation. When I first read The Guardian of Shadows (2011) by Algerian writer Waciny Laredj, I read it three times. By this repeated reading, I was able to fully grasp its depth and uncover the many profound layers of meaning. After translating and publishing the novel, we witnessed a strong and enthusiastic response from Iranian readers to this remarkable work.

Despite shared elements between Arabic and Farsi, there are deep differences that arise from the distinct cultural landscapes of Arab and Persian societies

I then went on to read and translate another of his novels, Gypsies Also Love, into Farsi. It is a beautiful and deeply meaningful story that shines a light on the Moriscos of Algeria (descendants of Muslims forced to convert to Christianity who were then exiled to North Africa from 1609), particularly those in Oran, who struggle to preserve their freedom, traditions, and cultural identity in the face of authority. This was also warmly received in Iran.

What is your dream or professional goal as a translator of Arabic into Farsi?

I aim to wipe away the dust of forgetfulness and distortion from the mirror of civilisation. Translation serves as a vital bridge of cultural communication between Persians and Arabs. We have now reached a stage of genuine mutual affection and brotherhood between the Iranian people and the Arab world, but malicious actors, misguided individuals, and adversaries work to sow division between the two peoples.

Do you aspire to establish a dedicated centre for literary translation between Arabic and Farsi?

Although an excellent idea, sadly, the state pays no attention to such initiatives, and one hand alone cannot clap. Iran owes its writers a life free from siege, anxiety, imprisonment, deprivation, and exile. Under such conditions, how could anyone establish a translation centre? Because of my political activities and my support for former presidential candidate Mir-Hossein Mousavi, the government has chosen to disregard both me and my work. Yet I continue to translate, undeterred.

Do you experience government censorship when translating?

Government censorship in Iran is like a massive boulder blocking the path for us translators and writers. Many novels are rejected by the censors. The Ministry of Culture has a Department of Reviewers. An anonymous 'reviewer' reads a novel, translation, or poetry collection and issues directives to remove specific passages. This results in mutilated work, stripped of its essence. If the reviewers were intellectuals, they could contribute meaningfully.

Some years ago, I translated Gypsies Also Love by Waciny Laredj. The ministry refused to publish it, so I had to send it to a publisher abroad. The same happened with Zeina by Nawal El Saadawi. Censors are preoccupied with rigid sectarian concerns and show no understanding of love.

When translating Taif al-Hallaj (The Phantom of al-Hallaj) (2018), the censor objected to the phrase "Every day He is upon some task," and sent me an official letter telling me to cite the source of this hadith in a footnote. Just imagine! He didn't even realise that the phrase is neither a hadith nor a narration, but a verse from the Holy Qur'an. He then added: "Either delete it or face rejection; the choice is yours."

Did your five years in prison influence your turn to translation?

Behind prison walls and in dark cells, in solitary confinement for six months, I continued to translate, focusing particularly on significant works of contemporary Arabic fiction. Those novels became my cherished companions. Through them, I soared to new heights. My days were illuminated, and the darkness began to lift. I resolved to give the world something greater than it had given me.

The first novel I translated was Gate of the Sun by the late Elias Khoury. I was in solitary confinement at the time, and it took me six months to complete. After that, I translated The Disoriented by Amin Maalouf, followed by Little Death and Al-Qundus by Mohammed Hasan Alwan.

Do you believe your translations from Arabic into Farsi create a cultural bridge between intellectuals on both sides?

Absolutely. Many Arab writers are in contact with me, requesting that I translate their latest novels into Farsi. Their works have already been translated into several other languages. At the same time, many Iranian intellectuals have reached out to express their delight at seeing contemporary Arab literature translated into Farsi. Is there any bridge in the world stronger, more enduring, or more beautiful than the one built on literature and translation?

Politics ruins what culture builds. As long as politics interferes in cultural affairs, intellectuals' hands will remain tied

More than 30 years ago, Iran and Iraq were bombing each other. But last year, I stood in Baghdad as an Iranian guest in the land of Sumerian and Babylonian civilisation, with words in my hand, instead of a gun. Translation is a bridge between civilisations, built with the mortar of love, the cement of thought, and the flowers of words.

Politics ruins what culture builds. As long as politics interferes in cultural affairs, intellectuals' hands will remain tied by the interests and authoritarian ambitions of politicians. Because of my opposition to the views of Iran's ruling political class, obstacles have been placed in my path. Sadly, many leading cultural figures have become marginalised, some even barred from teaching at universities. I am among those who have been dismissed and banned from academic life because I do not endorse their politics or align with their cultural positions.

I recall how the editor of a prominent Iranian journal invited me to a special ceremony in my honour. It was to be attended by leading Iranian cultural figures, along with many Arab writers whose works I had translated and who had contributed thoughtful tribute essays, to be published in a special issue.

But just one day before the event, I was informed that it had been cancelled by order of the Director of Cultural Affairs in Arak, my birthplace. He knew I was not one of them and that I did not share their outlook. A similar episode occurred when I was barred from participating in a cultural roundtable at Yazd University due to my views. Whoever fails to value their own treasures will surely squander their destiny. The harshest shackles are those of censorship.

A friend once joked that censorship treats us much like an overly strict man from the Fatimid era would treat his wife, forbidding her from leaving the house without his permission. When a writer or translator produces work that aligns with the wishes of an illiterate 'reviewer' or censor, and complies with their directives, there is no difference between them and that Fatimid woman. The mission of the writer, poet, and translator is to declare the truth and convey it. The mission of the politician is to conceal it to serve his interests and preserve his power.

How do you see the role of translation in conveying Palestinian literature, or literature focused on Palestine?

Iranians feel profound sorrow when they witness the oppression of Palestinians by Israel, their homes destroyed, bombs raining down, corpses in Gaza and other occupied Palestinian cities. They weep in anguish. My pen is my weapon, my ink the bullets, so in response, I began translating literary works by Arab authors such as Ibrahim Nasrallah, the late Elias Khoury, and Issa Qaraqe. In their novels, I discovered the true image of Palestine.

Among my most important translations of Palestinian literature are Gate of the Sun by Elias Khoury, A Tank Under the Christmas Tree by Ibrahim Nasrallah, I Saw Ramallah by Mourid Barghouti, A Thousand Days in Solitary Confinement by Marwan Barghouti, and Writing Among the Corpses by Issa Qaraqe.

After they were published, many of my Iranian friends—who had previously paid little attention to Palestine or its history—confessed that they had never truly understood the Palestinian cause until reading these books. Some then wrote in defence of Palestine, its history, and the rights of its people. This was made possible by pen and ink, not by blood, swords, extremism, or politics.

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