New Life among the Arts in Iraq

According to an article by Ulrike Putz, Bagdad,
the Iraqi art scene is 'slowly blossoming' once again. This is of no small significance as some say that the 'state of art is closely linked with the state of their nation'.  Certainly the images in a variety of art forms captures the emotions, the heart of the Iraqi people.

The article by Ulrike Putz also points out that safety of Bagdad's artists whether they are sculptors, painters, playwrights or poets, are protected by the Iraqi army as they assemble over tea and a hookah to share stories and concerns. To learn more about the re-emergence of art in Iraq go to: http://www.spiegel.de/international/zeitgeist/0,1518,690433,00.html.

Qasim Sabti, artist and gallery
owner and expert on visual arts in Iraq. 

An example of the work that is on display at Sabti's
gallery.  Work ranges from traditional like this one to
abstract.

IRAQI Artists In EXILE

Bags of Bones

What good luck!
She has found his bones.
The skull is also in the bag
the bag in her hand
like all other bags
in all other trembling hands.
His bones, like thousands of bones
in the mass graveyard,
His skull, not like any other skull.
Two eyes or holes
with which he saw too much,
two ears
with which he listened to music
that told his own story,
a nose
that never knew clean air,
a mouth, open like a chasm,
it was not like that when he kissed her
there, quietly,
not in this place
noisy with skulls and bones and dust
dug up with questions:
What does it mean to die all this death
in a place where the darkness plays all this silence?
What does it mean to meet your loved ones now
With all of these hollow places?
To give back to your mother
on the occasion of death
a handful of bones
she had given to you
on the occasion of birth?
To depart without death or birth certificates
because the dictator does not give receipts
when he takes your life.
The dictator has a skull too, a huge one
not like any other skull.
It solved by itself a math problem
that multiplied the one death by millions
to equal homeland.
The dictator is the director of a great tragedy.
he has an audience, too,
an audience that claps
until the bones begin to rattle ¬
the bones in the bags,
the full bag finally in her hand,
unlike her disappointed neighbor
who has not yet found her own.

You can find more poetry by Dunya Mikhail at:

http://iraq.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=16531

Iraqi and American Reconciliation Project

Rooster and Woman

The mission of the Iraqi and American Reconciliation
Project (IARP) (in association with the Muslim 
Peacemaker Project) is to promote reconciliation between 
the people of the United States and Iraq in response to 
the devastation affecting Iraqi families, society, and 
culture. IARP recognizes the common humanity of the
people of Iraq and the people of the United States. The 
goals of the IARP is to:

1) Build bridges between the people of Iraq and the 
United States through art, education, health, and cultural 
exchange programs.

2. Provide material support to the Muslim Peacemaker 
Teams (MPT).

3. Raise consciousness in the American public about the 
well-being of average Iraqis, their daily lives, and their culture.

To learn more about the Iraqi and American Reconciliation 
Project please visit their website at: http://reconciliationproject.org.

At the Border by Choman Hardi

Choman Hardi is a young

Kurdish poet and was chair of 

the Exiled Writers Ink, a 

community of established 

refugee writers.

source: Open Democracy,

http://www.opendemocracy.net

“It is your last check-in point in this country!”
We grabbed a drink.
Soon everything would taste different.

The land under our feet continued,
divided by a thick iron chain.

My sister put her leg across it.
“Look over here”, she said to us,
“my right leg is in this country
and my left leg in the other”.
The border guards told her off.

My mother told me: We are going home.
She said that the roads are much cleaner,
the landscape is more beautiful,
and people are much kinder.

Dozens of families waited in the rain.
“I can inhale home”, somebody said.
Now our mothers were crying. I was five years old,
standing by the check-in point,
comparing both sides of the border.

The autumn soil continued on the other side,
the same colour, the same texture.
It rained on both sides of the chain.

We waited while our papers were checked,
our faces thoroughly inspected.
Then the chain was removed to let us through.
A man bent down and kissed his muddy homeland.
The same chain of mountains encompassed all of us.

Iraqi Women's Art Exchange

The Iraqi Women's Art Exchange is committed
to "providing Iraqi women with the opportunity
to work with various art materials for self-
expression, the exploration of their creativy, the
joy of learning, and the development of greater
self-esteem."

The IWAE was launched by professional artist
Jan Ross, from Kennesaw, GA with inspiration
from Danielle Colson who had been deployed in
Iraq at Camp Adder.  Together the women work
with other organizations to create an environment
by which Iraqi women can learn, display their art
works and share their creative ideas.

To Learn more about the non-profit Iraqi Women's Art Exchange please visit their website at :

http://www.iraqiwomensart.org

In My Spare Time by Fadhil Al-Azzawi

During my long, boring hours of spare time


I sit to play with the earth’s sphere.
I establish countries without police or parties
and I scrap others that no longer attract consumers.
I run roaring rivers through barren deserts
and I create continents and oceans
that I save for the future just in case.
I draw a new coloured map of the nations:
I roll Germany to the Pacific Ocean teeming with whales
and I let the poor refugees
sail pirates’ ships to her coasts
in the fog
dreaming of the promised garden in Bavaria.
I switch England with Afghanistan
so that its youth can smoke hashish for free
provided courtesy of Her Majesty’s government.
I smuggle Kuwait from its fenced and mined borders
to Comoro, the islands
of the moon in its eclipse,
keeping the oil fields intact, of course.
At the same time I transport Baghdad
in the midst of loud drumming
to the islands of Tahiti.
I let Saudi Arabia crouch in its eternal desert
to preserve the purity of her thoroughbred camels.
This is before I surrender America
back to the Indians
just to give history
the justice it has long lacked.


To learn more about Fadhil Al Azzawi and his poetry:
http://iraq.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=424