Dr. Aziz Mustafa is a Kosovo Albanian physician and writer. He is co-founder of Kosovo’s ENT Association, and a member of the Politzer Society, Mediterranean Otorhinolaryngology and Audiology Association, and Balkan Otorhinolaringologists. His medical publications are cited in several databases: PubMed, Index Copernicus, Scopus, Google Scholar and EBSCO.
Mustafa began writing at a very young age. He has published the following books in Albanian:
1. Mustafa, A. (1996). My skull is my passport. Pristina, Jeta e Re
2. Mustafa, A. (1999). The measurement of stopped time. Skopje, Asdreni
3. Mustafa, A. (2004). Learn to say no. Pristina, Rozafa
4. Mustafa, A. (2014). My land is in love. Pristina, Olymp
His poetry appears in several Albanian anthologies, and in Emanations – International Authors. He has been a member of the Albanian’s Writers Association since 1999. Aziz Mustafa is also known as the very first Albanian member of Mensa International. He currently works at the University Clinical Centre of Kosovo.
TATTOO ON THE SOUL
Translated from Albanian by Florent Abrashi
If I would make a tattoo, firstly on my cheek I would paint the tears, and the pain of blinded eyes I would keep as a hostage on my brow. On my forehead I would write that “Only one God exists.” This I would write in all hieroglyphs and alphabets of the globe, and if I would have had one hectare space in my forehead that would not be enough, thus I would write only in Albanian so that God would understand for once.
If I would tattoo my chest, I would cover it with smells of jasmine and lilacs; I would cover my heart with the dreamt kisses and the lipsticks of the lost loves; with faded crimson of the dried blood where it is written “I love you” and with the poisonous arrows of forbidden lust. I would tattoo my back with the scars of the bags carried by the father on his back to feed up the mouths of five children with his sweat and the honor of his home and the stains of the whips of policemen in the backs of my brothers, eternal enemies of usurpers. Between my ribs I would tattoo the perforations by needles for hemi-thorax drainage, from broken ribs…
Tattoos, oh such tattoos of aragonite stones in exhausted muscles of shoulders, tattoos on outside veins which feed up with blood an insatiable earth of skulls (the homeland); tattoos of the beating of bongos by slaves who have forgotten to dream about freedom… tattoos.
And on my feet: the Achilles heel with the arrow never coming out and the marathon runner dying while saying “we won…” and the sciatic nerve following the phantom pain to the tips of severed fingers…The pain that can’t be healed…
On my neck I would tattoo the convolute snake that deceived Adam and the holes of the vampire’s bites that I don’t trust that life is a movie… and then many other things, so many tattoos until my skin wouldn’t fit more. Then I would flip it once again like a negative movie, black and white, as before the heavenly judge when I will give my final answer… why did I get so many tattoos?
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