“When We Have Nothing, We Have Creation”: An Interview with Dalia Elhassan
Dalia Elhassan is a Sudanese-American poet and writer based in NYC. She is the author of In Half Light, a chapbook in the New-Generation African Poets Series (Sita) published in collaboration with Akashic Books and the African Poetry Book Fund.
WSR: Introduce yourself in 30 seconds. Who are you?
Dalia: I’m technically a second year at NYU’s Creative Writing Program. I'm from Sudan; I was born there. I write poetry. I recently got a cat. Her name is June after June Jordan and my birth month.
WSR: How would you describe your experience as an MFA candidate in NYU’s program?
Dalia: I feel like my experience in the MFA program so far has been really positive. I say that after coming from not so positive workshop experiences and writing program experiences.
When I applied, I did not think I would get in, but somehow I did. It feels really thrilling to be here. I feel like I'm getting a lot out of it and learning more about myself than I anticipated or could have elsewhere. My professors are incredible. It feels like a dream. I’ve always wanted to be at this particular creative writing program.
Coming here was like a breath of fresh air in terms of my experiences with my peers and the amount of intention and care behind every workshop and every reading experience. I know that's not everyone's general MFA experience, but after coming from an undergrad experience that was not so hot, having an MFA experience where I feel seen and like I'm growing as a writer feels great.
WSR: What are you afraid of as a writer? What do you resist in your writing?
Dalia: The most immediate things that come to mind—because I think I go into writing fearlessly—for me are reception and fear of being misunderstood. I think my fear of being misunderstood stems from the fact that I put so much into my writing, and it's very personal for me. I have no problem bearing all of my messiness, ugliness, and vulnerabilities and trying to craft something out of them.
I resist forms. I don't gravitate towards them. I feel like I don't have much experience in terms of formal writing or forms that have a lot of constraints when it comes to meter. When it starts to involve math, I can’t wrap my head around it. I don’t like to think about numbers when it comes to poetry. I consider that a weakness and I do hope one day I will get to the point where I enjoy it.
WSR: What does literary success look like to you?
Dalia: In the past, having a book with my work and my name on it was a dream for me. Between the ages of 14 and 20, I associated literary success with having a book. The book would be written with the purpose of being of service to others. It would be something that was honest and meaningful to me at mind and at heart.
Honestly, nothing feels like that anymore. There comes a certain point where you're like okay, publications. You used to get so excited about it. You become aware of the hierarchies, where things are more subjective; the career aspects of poetry which make it more of a job and less of an art form.
There are so many incredible writers who aren't getting the exposure I think they deserve because this industry is set up to serve some people more than others.
When you're able to gauge people's reactions and see that your work does something for them or are able to experience other people's work and that does something for you—I think there's no greater success than that for me. That’s what makes this really meaningful for me. But the heart of it is what moves you. What makes your blood move.
WSR: What projects are you working on now?
Dalia: I’m not working on anything. That’s very intentional. I came into the MFA program straight out of undergrad. I studied literary studies in poetry for my undergrad degree. I had to produce a capstone project; the thesis was thirty-six pages of poetry. As I was doing that, I was also revising and putting together a chapbook. Putting together two book projects at the same time was a draining experience.
It was fun at first, but then you just get really burnt out at the end of it. There was a lot going on in my life last year and back in Sudan with the revolution. I was pouring a lot of myself externally and doing a lot poetically that I still feel very proud of, but I felt super burnt out at the end of it.
Even when I say this, I find myself building toward a project. Just writing some of the most honest and vulnerable poems I’ve ever written in this moment. I don't know what that will look like. I don’t know what the shape will be. I feel like I'm standing before this clay, and I'm playing with it. It’s suddenly taking shape, and I’m thinking, “Okay, cool. Sculpting something.”
I’m letting myself just play in the poetry a bit more, not writing everything based on this theme with tight constraints or following XYZ. You do it once, and it's great. However, I came out of it feeling like I needed a break. I wanted to just write poems that make me feel good and feel like they're tapping into something that I haven’t tapped into for a while.
WSR: What advice would you give to someone who’s feeling overwhelmed with things happening in their home country while also producing written work?
Dalia: Give yourself grace. It’s hard to give yourself grace in these times because these moments are so pivotal and they're catalysts for change and transformation. You go places emotionally, mentally, and creatively that you didn't ever really anticipate being in. I think the biggest thing that I would say is to find community in whatever way you can.
My chapbook, The New Generation Of African-American Poets, was released in June. June 2019 was a particularly gruesome month for the revolution. The series came out just a week after the massacre on June 3rd, the morning of Eid. I remember feeling like I had nothing to celebrate. I didn't know how to hold the thrill of putting together something that’s really important to me while also holding the deep pain and trauma and experiencing collective revolution and struggle for freedom.
I was holding both of those feelings, and I had this moment where I just snapped; I was thinking of the work of a poet.June Jordan has this quote: “The task of the poet is to rally the spirit of their people, especially a black poet. To engage in that spirit work and really uplift people in hard moments.” As soon as I remembered that, I decided, “I need to do something. I'm not going to ignore the publication. I'm not going to let it go by.”
Instead of cancelling my book launch, I modified it, hoping to do something that would actually be healing for other people. We uplifted all of my favorite Sudanese artists, filmmakers, and brought back photos from the archive. Even though it was a book launch event, I made it more of a celebration of everyone else that I love and respect.
I remember so many people that night and afterwards coming to me, saying, “We really needed this.” We were mourning, but we were in community. We were celebrating. We were seeing that regardless of everything that's happening, we have this inexhaustible courage. We're going to continue to dream of a future that's ahead.
The things that we do in particular, and coming from the regions that we come from, knowing the kind of history that’s stacked up against us of erasure and repression and governmental dictatorship—those things are deliberate.
Their goal is to crush you and make you feel suffocated, unable to create. But when we have nothing, we have creation. When we have nothing, we have each other. We have so many examples of people who came before us who didn’t lose sight of that, handing us the baton to continue that. We’re thinking of our descendants too. We can’t be erased. We won’t be.
WSR: What motivates you to keep going?
Dalia: For the last five months or so, I’ve just been feeling very out of tune with myself—what my initial purpose is or why I went into this poetry thing. I had an experience where I was sitting in the home of a friend of mine that passed away back in August and was visiting his parents. I wasn't able to visit during the actual funeral or during the time when they were really mourning because I was recovering from surgery.
Sitting there in that living room and hearing his dad speak about Sudan, being in another Sudanese home, knowing that people were hurting and just sitting in my grieving, seeing this man laugh, being effervescent, recalling stories of his childhood, his journey out of Sudan, and raising a family abroad. Being around an elder like that brought me to a space where I felt 14 again. Listening to all my elders speak, thinking “this is so magical.” I really wish I could capture that in a capsule of some sort.
Whenever I feel like I lose motivation, I just have to go back to my roots. Really sit with these people that have these incredible stories to share. I have the privilege of being able to help them record it and share it in a sense. Being in service in that sort of way—it’s so much bigger than me. So much bigger than anything else. It’s work that has to be done. Otherwise, you lose it.