Interview: Poet Dunya Mikhail Dunya Mikhail fled her homeland in the wake of the first Gulf War, after her writing was labeled subversive by Saddam Hussein's government. She has never physically returned to Iraq, but she remembers it in her poetry.

Revisiting Iraq Through The Eyes Of An Exiled Poet

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This week, we're marking 10 years since the start of the Iraq War; this morning, through the eyes and words of a poet.


Dunya Mikhail is her name. She was a teenager in 1980 when war broke out between Iran and Iraq. Her father was a casualty of that nearly decade-long war, not in the fighting, but for lack of proper medical care. After another ware, the Gulf War, she fled Baghdad.

MONTAGNE: Mikhail had been questioned by Saddam Hussein's government and her writing and poetry had been labeled subversive by the state media. She escaped to Jordan and then the U.S. where she made a life for herself - marrying, raising a daughter, becoming a citizen.

It is to Iraq though that Dunya Mikhail returned. Line by line, she revisits her country - not in body - but through the vision of her poems.

Good morning.

DUNYA MIKHAIL: Good morning, Renee.

MONTAGNE: Let's start with a poem - it's a longer poem - called "I Was In A Hurry." And I think this speaks to the connection you have with Iraq, even though have, at this point, been gone a very long time.

MIKHAIL: Right, Renee. Actually this poem was the first poem I wrote when I arrived here in America. So let me read it.

(Reading) Yesterday I lost a country. I was in a hurry, and didn't notice when it fell from me like a broken branch from a forgetful tree. Please, if anyone passes by and stumbles across it, perhaps in a suitcase open to the sky, or canceled like a losing lottery ticket, or rising with the smoke of war, or rolling in a helmet on the sand, or stolen in Ali Baba's jar, or disguised in the uniform of a policeman who stirred up the prisoners and fled, or squatting in the mind of a woman who tries to smile. If anyone stumbles across it, return it to me, please. It's my country. I was in a hurry when I lost it yesterday.

MONTAGNE: Now, that poem was written 18 years ago, 17 years ago?


MONTAGNE: Does the loss of your country, Iraq, still feel as raw as if it was yesterday - as you write in the poem?

MIKHAIL: The way that things come to mind, I feel that they are more as fragments. They are strange. They don't come in order any more, so the happy moments and the sad moments climb over each other: our home in Baghdad with the roof where we would sleep in summer nights, and we would go down when we heard the sound of the siren; the simple heater in the middle of our living room that was called Aladdin - and on it, that pot of tea with cardamom.

And I remember my father dying in front of my eyes. I remember the windows of our classrooms shaking from explosions. You know, the war was like the norm.

MONTAGNE: Several years ago, your family experienced a terrible tragedy that we seem to hear about too much, a kidnapping. And there's just a few lines in one poem in your book, "Diary of a Wave Outside the Sea," you write from the position of being in America - just outside Detroit - and you get some news. Could you read those lines?


(Reading) My husband bends his head to the table and cries. His niece in Baghdad has been kidnapped. She is 20 years old. Masked men surrounded her and pulled her away from her mother's outstretched hands into a car. They were like a tsunami. Iraq is a tsunami in slow motion. I wake at night and wonder if she is alive and if she is what her life is like. To be in a cage of strange hands can only be a nightmare.

MONTAGNE: Your niece was kidnapped - what - three years ago?

MIKHAIL: Maybe four years ago.

MONTAGNE: Has she ever been found?

MIKHAIL: No, we didn't hear about her since then.

MONTAGNE: I'm so sorry.

MIKHAIL: Oh, it's OK.

MONTAGNE: When we first spoke in 2007, at the time you said that writing about war and loss doesn't heal wounds, that, in fact, it keeps them open. Do you still feel that way?

MIKHAIL: Yes, Renee. I still believe that poetry is not medicine - it's an X-ray. It helps you see the wound and understand it. We all feel alienated because of this continuous violence in the world. We feel alone but we feel, also, together. So we resort to poetry as a possibility for survival. However, to say I survived is not so final as to say, for example, I'm alive. We wake up to find that the war survived with us.

MONTAGNE: With Saddam Hussein long gone it is possible to go back, to travel there. Why have you not gone back?

MIKHAIL: Yes, a lot of people ask me this. And the way I feel towards this is really strange. I feel that I woke up from a dream. And going back to Iraq is like asking me will I see the same dream if I go back to sleep? It's strange. But I keep contact to maybe have some trace of that old dream or experience. And I find that Iraqis all have one dream, and that is to live a normal life and to die a normal death.

MONTAGNE: Would you read one more poem for us? It's called "The Shape of the World."

MIKHAIL: Certainly.

(Reading) If the world were flat like a flying carpet, our sorrow would have a beginning and an end. If the world were square, we would lie low in a corner when the war plays hide-and-seek. If the world were round, our dreams would take turns on the Ferris wheel and we would be equal.

MONTAGNE: Thank you very much for speaking with us, Dunya Mikhail.

MIKHAIL: Thank you very much, Renee. I really appreciate it.


MONTAGNE: Iraqi-American poet Dunya Mikhail's collections include "The War Works Hard" and the forthcoming "The Iraqi Nights."

This is MORNING EDITION from NPR News. I'm Renee Montagne.

INSKEEP: And I'm Steve Inskeep.


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