موقع الأديبة د.فليحة حسن

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– * Face to face with the writer Faleeha Hasa

Face to face with the writer Faleeha Hasa


Concerning the literature variation in a special and a translated


Faleeha Hasan, one of the Iraqi women writers from holy Najaf, She carried the bewilderment of days sadly, and she managed to unite the letters in passion and love, she charged into the horizons of creativity to prove that she is unique in all the details of radiance, her steps were determined gently in spite of all surrounding hardships.

She is the poet, writer and critic, who reached the gates of beauty in all positive aspects that carried the tint of creativity.

Starting from the city of light, a woman with the fragrance of gardenia, awoken to scatter her aroma upon the Iraqi grounds as whole and the Najafi grounds precisely.

Q1: Who is Faleeha Hasan?

A1: A woman that lives on reading to the extent that it is considered a healing remedy to most of her sufferings.

Q2: How did Faleeha Hasan find herself in the middle of the Najafi Masculine environment?

A2: the holy city of Najaf has a hard nature with a literature surrounding that is limited to men; women need to resemble the oysters in patience and endure the pain to produce their awaited pearl.

Q3: from the writer Faleeha Hasan’s point of view, do the festivals create the poet or is it the other way around?

A3: not at all! The true poet is the one who makes the festival by his poem, and not the other way around by any means.

Q4: in your opinion, what is the reason behind this variation? Poems…Stories…playwritings?

A4: just as the pregnant woman cannot predict the sex of her fetus, nor can she determine it as she wishes nor can science achieve this, I too can’t determine the form of my writing, for example I sit down and say I want to right a story, and simply I do so! Or I wish to write a poem and it simply obeys my desire, and there it is a feminine poem! I leave the freedom to my creativity to choose the type and the form it wishes to take.

Q5: where did Faleeha Hasan find herself among the variations of literature?

A5: I exist in everything I write, because it can never be separated from me at all, my writings are that deep me that I try to hide from the closest ones to me. But it insists on leaking from the pores of paper to take the image of words, but what I always find as an echo to my soul is poetry that almost covers all the areas of my disclosure.

Q6: you have a new novel, so does our writer Faleeha Hasan think that it was properly covered by media?

A6: my new novel was mentioned mentioned as a new release in most of the Iraqi newspapers and it was mentioned in two of the satellite channels.

Q7: from Faleeha Hasan’s point of view, in Iraq, do we have the kind of criticism that enables the intellectual to sense his coming steps?

A7: Iraq, resembling the Arab homeland, requires a specified critical theory, since the fourth Hijran century and all schools and approaches of criticism available are those of Europe which are imported, translated and altered in one way or another to fit the Arabic poetry scene.

All those that address critical studies of intellectuals today cannot be enlisted under the title of critic rather they should be known as pseudo-critics, according to Dr. Abdulwahid Lualua whom I totally agree with. Because our depended approach is in lack of standardization, that enables the sound judgment to distinguish good poetry from bad. Therefore we cannot know for sure where the poet is standing, consequently, where he should be heading.

Q8: the writer Faleeha Hasan wasn’t in the gathering of the world of poetry that was held in holy Najaf in spite of the attendance of all the writers of the holy city?

A8: is it a requirement from the poet to exist (not attend) all the festivals to say that I am a poet??

I don’t think so; not attending this kind of a festival didn’t affect my journey of innovation, did it?

Q9: did the writer Faleeha Hasan achieve what she wishes and expects?

A9: No, of course not, the ambitions of innovative people are beyond any limit, what I seek is still in the world of the unseen, it may reach to dreaming of penetrating the usual and outreaching to be unique in everything I write.

Q10: the writer Faleeha Hasan, poetry in Najaf is almost considered the source of literature in this city; did the story, novel, and playwritings find their way in the allies of Najafi innovations?

A10: from time to time, a story collection or novel appears in the Najafi scene, acquires good reactions, and is addressed by supporters with propaganda and criticism. This thing leads us to a conclusion that narrative literature has big presence among Najafis. It also managed to satisfy the Najafi taste, whereas the latter isn’t restricted to poetry anymore, but it managed to reach out for narrative literature with all its forms, therefore the poets of this city found themselves in front of strong competent in the fields of story, novel and playwritings.

Q11: again I ask you as an innovative person … Faleeha Hasan…who are you?

A11: and I insist on answering both questions that I’m Faleeha Hasan.

Q12: in your writings, we find the man defeated sometimes while being angry in others?

A12: yes, these are the descriptions of men I find surrounding me, in my society, I find the man angry, dissatisfied with everything and couldn’t care less for happiness, on the contrary he’s a great craftsman for sadness, and excels in scattering ashes. He has no care for others, but only himself, be sure, Sir, that behind the smile of each man is a word of a caring woman, and behind each tear of a woman you find a word of an unkind man. Therefore when I write him down I picture him from the inside, stripping off his conscious so, there he is…. defeated and helpless.

Q13: Faleeha Hasan, why does sadness always portray your writings?

A13: maybe the entrapping surroundings of accumulating grieves and me being a neighbor of the graves, or maybe because I never had a breath of happiness, whenever I get the chance for meditation all I can see is the different shapes of graves of the nearby cemetery or ceremonies of funerals, where the dead seek their final ditch… when I breathe, I inhale the dust of the tomb carriers’ shoes, I quickly take refuge from this pain to my head where I find instantly collapsing dreams for it is not long before they bump into reality. Sometimes, asking myself, I wonder, if the southern man travels he’ll be longing to his city with all those palm trees, marshes, and reed boats. If the northern man departs his towns , he’ll be taken by the craven to his childhood playgrounds, between mountains and green valleys, and maybe the beduin would yearn to those endless sheets of sand, but you Faleeha Hasan to whom would you be longing if you leave Najaf behind?

Although that its departure is only a temporary one, for sooner or later, all would return to that certain destiny….

Faleeha Hasan will remain to knock the doors of innovation, in a way that the recipient would always be encircled with awe, regarding to all the phases of literature, for she is a continuing shining modern occasion in all of the literature gatherings.

As we reach the end of this interview, we thank the writer who carried her innovation in between her hands and soul, thank you daughter of Iraq, Faleeha Hasan, for your generous hospitality and positive conduct in answering our questions.

Interviewed by:

Firas HM Al-Harby

Translated by:

Amal Ibrahim Al-Nusairi

ملاحظة …..

ان ترجمة هذا الحوار كانت مفصولة عنه عند المشاركة في مسابقة مهرجان مؤسسة النور للثقافة والاعلام السادس دورة الدكتورة ” أمال كاشف الغطاء ” للإبداع ، والذي اقيم في بغداد وصلاح الدين للفترة من 13 – 14 نيسان 2012 أي انه قدم بدون ترجمة علما أن الترجمة للشاعرة والاعلامية الزميلة ” امال ابراهيم ” ، والتي اختيرت مؤخرا خلال المهرجان لمنصب مدير مؤسسة النور للثقافة والاعلام – مكتب بغداد ، وبهذا الفوز اهدي الشاعرة الاعلامية الزميلة ” امال ابرهيم ” والأديبة التي اجريت معها الحوار ” فليحة حسن ” اجمل وانقى التحايا واقول شكرا , شكرا , شكرا , من القلب القلوب البيضاء .

– * Four Poems by Faleeha Hassan

 Four Poems by Faleeha Hassan

1. Age

2. Wish

2. Longing ness

4. The Child Martyr


 1.  Age

I part my days:

One half for daughters not able yet

To count by hand

Or walk with open heart,

And a half for the man huddling upon the age

As heavy as the war

Or, like a palm with no breath of odour.

What left I turn to birds

Replete with white…

Fleeting sea gulls,

Butterflies lisping with magic,

Signs of Surprise,

Tales about elves,

And the carol

Living deep in the dream

Narrated by the grandma

As she was warning me

To run away

So that the core of the sea would cool off.

But, I forget her warning,

Wandering far out in my head,

But .. the clock calls to my dreams

So I come back…

To part my days:

One half for daughters not able yet

To jump as high as the wash rope

Burdened with woolen clothes,

And half

For the man sitting in silence


Sipping the nectar of the present

And cursing upon the future sorrow.

2. Wish

I’d like to come to you

But, our streets are red

And I do not have

But my white dress.

3. Longing ness

When the tomb has regained its lovely dimness,

I made my heart a window,

And started to praise my murderer.

4. The Child Martyr

For you, I write letters,

The others would be haunting me,

I hurried to the well to whisper:

It was a fast meeting

Like a bullet buried, through a bat, into the soldiers’ ribs.

It was a slow meeting

Like a mother’s tear

As she, preparing travel food

For the one born by the frontiers,

Whose birth certificate is full of worries.

All the overcoats are too large for him,

Yet, it is said that he’s worn an overcoat,

This is doubtful,

For he’s never been obsessed

With an instinct to take off his country.

I’ll gather all those bloods

Still traveling…

Lest I should say that

Our descriptions are but kindred.

Some difference is there between us,

It is the wound, oh my companion,

To which I am an echo.

           Translation by Hussein Nasser  Jabr Al-Abbadi

-* At The Margin of The War

At The Margin of The War

Faleeha   Hassan    

“Those are stars,”

says the child,
as airplanes distort the face of the sky.
“I used to rest my head,”
his sister says, “upon his kind arms.
I don’t remember how we
found the bones of the murdered one
who was my Daddy who
was defending us on this mirage-earth,
asking a shadow; how did this begin?”

The ash women cry,
“These are the portents of those lost
in the darkness of the prisons.”
One of them calls for help,
“I didn’t find him.
He left without a helmet,
and nothing distinguishes him
but his heart.
He was like my country
too great to bear.
They returned many corpses
but not his.”
“These are the marks of a faded morning,”
says the woman who, still
tidying the bed blankets,
dreams he may come in one longing night,
lights a match,
holds back grief.

“These are the memories of past years,”
says one who has just come.
“To whom has my age been sold as wood fire
for a fire that has raged for twenty-three years
without ending?
These are mirrors for my hollow life.”

Birds cry as they follow an Apache squadron,
“Where are the windows?
Where are the windows?
We want air!”

 Faleeha   Hassan 
(Translated by Soheil Najm)


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