Leila Chatti: “I am fascinated by faith, and I write a lot about it. Someone recently pointed out to me that I’ve written about my father and I’ve shared religion (Islam), but nothing about my mother’s Catholicism, her somewhat lapsed relationship with God. I don’t mean to say that my mother no longer believes in God, only that she is disappointed by Him. In His absence, my mother has found comfort in other rituals, ones that have become precious—sacred, even—in our family. I wanted to write a poem that celebrated that.” (web)
Leila Chatti: “I am currently in my second home, Tunisia, where I return each summer to visit my family. It is Ramadan and I was preparing for the evening meal (iftar), during which one breaks their fast, when I first read the news about Orlando. And as I was reading, the adhan—the call to prayer–came drifting in from town. I was so startled by the juxtaposition I had to sit for a long time. I thought of the line by Naomi Shihab Nye: ‘What does a true Arab do now?’ And what does a true Muslim do, too? I wrote this poem.” (website)
Leila Chatti: “As a Tunisian-American, I am a member of two very different cultures, but between them there is one significant commonality: in both I am ‘less-than,’ because I am a woman. My body is legislated and objectified, taboo and covered. When I write poems about my body, it is a feminist act; I am declaring this body both important and mine.” (website)
Leila Chatti: “This week, I woke up to the news that a few miles away, three Muslim students had been shot and killed ruthlessly—an execution. As a fellow North Carolina State University student and Arab-American Muslim, this tragedy resonated on a deeply personal level; always, horrors like these raise the quiet fear, “Could I be next?” That the question exists is an ugly thing. I have spent days trying to find the words to articulate this grief, grief at a pain that seems unending. I struggle to speak about it, but I feel I have to try. This is my attempt at that.” (web)
Leila Chatti: “People are always surprised to find out that I’m Muslim, which is funny because I was raised pretty much as Muslim as you can get—Sunday school, Qur’an classes, Fridays at the masjid. I don’t wear the hijab and so the common assumption is that I’m not religious. The truth is, I became a poet largely because of my faith. As a child, I wasn’t allowed to listen to music, but I could listen to recordings of the Qur’an. If you’ve ever heard it read, you know how gorgeous it is. It was my first realization that language, particularly beautiful language, can hold power. I wanted to try my hand at crafting language that brought people to their knees, too.” (web)