By Tahir Imin Uyghurian
For Uyghurs, global holidays shared by all humanity—New Year’s, International Women’s Day, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Children’s Day—carry a unique and often painful meaning. Each time such a celebration comes around, Uyghurs around the world remember their loved ones left behind in the homeland. The absence of family on these occasions brings not joy, but a deep sense of longing and sorrow.
Today is Father’s Day. Around the world, people honor their fathers with gratitude—sharing meals, sending gifts, expressing love. But for many of us, this day is not filled with celebration. It is a day of remembrance, and for some, quiet mourning.
I want to say Happy Father’s Day to my brother Adil, who is imprisoned in our homeland. He is the father of three children. I also remember my late father, a man of compassion and hard work, and all the countless Uyghur fathers who remain behind bars, away from their families, their homes, their lives.
My father passed away in 2016. Though he is no longer with us, I imagine all good fathers to be like him—kind-hearted, generous, and selfless. On this day, I also think of other fathers in my family: my brother Adil, my uncle Abletkhan, my nephews Yusup, Gappar, Alimjan, Yasinjan, Alijan, and many more on my mother’s side. I do not know their current fate or whereabouts.
But I know this: my brother Adil, along with his wife, our mother, and other relatives, was sentenced to long prison terms in 2017. I’ve heard that other family members have also been detained. Adil is not just my brother—he is a father, a husband, a son. He was kind, hardworking, and deeply devoted to his three children. Every evening, he would return home with something small for his kids. They would laugh, gather around him, and play joyfully.
When Adil and his wife were arrested, their young children were left without parents. Based on similar stories, it is likely the Chinese government placed them in boarding schools as part of their so-called “Red New Generation” indoctrination campaign. Eight years have passed, and I still don’t know where they are, how they are, or what they’ve become. Are they safe? Are they healthy? Or are they suffering? Everything is unknown.
Back in our homeland, even speaking the names of the imprisoned was once too dangerous. Out of fear of Chinese government retaliation, people kept silent—afraid to remember, afraid to speak.
My brother Adil and our relatives have no idea where I am now or how I live. But I know they are surviving in dark, terrifying prisons—under pressure, pain, and perhaps complete hopelessness. The only thing I can do is remember them—replay memories of the days we spent together, and quietly miss them.
In these eight years, I haven’t been able to do much for them. The most I’ve managed is to keep their stories alive, to make sure they’re not forgotten. Sometimes I blame myself for being so far away. But I’ve come to believe this: what they would want most is for us to live well—free, happy, and with purpose. Perhaps on this Father’s Day, they would wish for me to be a good father, and to raise kind and strong children.
Just as Adil adored his own children, he loved my daughter Shehribanu deeply. And as a father myself, I long to hear those simple words from my own child: “Happy Father’s Day, Dad.” Though I have been separated from her for eight years, I send her my love and best wishes for health and peace.
To all Uyghur fathers—symbols of dedication, perseverance, and dignity—I say: may you be blessed with strength. May you be remembered.
Even though I am far away, my heart, my thoughts, and my prayers remain with my brother Adil and all of my imprisoned relatives.
