Hajar Hussaini is an Afghan poet and translator based in the United States. In 2004, she was 13 when she returned to Kabul with her family from Iran. She lived there for a decade, creating connections with the city’s artistic and intellectual circles. In 2014, she spent a year in Kyrgyzstan before moving to the United States to pursue her studies. She has not returned to Kabul since 2018.
In the United States, Hussaini studied English, philosophy, and contemporary literature. After completing her undergraduate degree, she pursued a two-year Master of Fine Arts degree in creative writing at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa. She is currently teaching English literature at Skidmore College in New York state.
Hussaini has translated two award-winning works into English: Death and His Brother by Khosrow Mani and a poetry collection by Maral Taheri into English. Her own debut poetry collection, Disbound (2022), was published by the University of Iowa Press. Written in English, the collection reflects on her life in Kabul, family, and the collective memory of Afghanistan. In her poems, she engages with the tensions of writing in a second language, the grammar and punctuation of English, and uses everyday events in Kabul — such as the mob killing of Farkhunda Malikzada in 2015 and suicide attacks — as a backdrop.
The collection has received significant attention, including winning this year’s Whiting Award for poetry. In this conversation, we speak with Hajar Hussaini about poetry, the importance of literary work, academic life, and the recognition her book has received. This conversation has been edited for style and length.
Zan Times: Who is Hajar Hussaini?
Hajar Hussaini: I grew up in Kabul. Like many families, mine returned to the city after the fall of the first Taliban regime. I lived in Kabul for 10 years — it was the place where I came of age and where my identity took shape. After 2014, I left Afghanistan to continue my undergraduate studies, first going to Kyrgyzstan and then moving to the United States, where I eventually settled. My bachelor’s degree was in English literature, with a focus on creative writing and contemporary thought. I studied for two years at the University of Iowa, where I joined a poetry workshop. It was there that I had the opportunity to write Disbound, a poetry collection of about 80 pages, with poems organized into four sections.
ZT: What are the poems in this collection about?
Hussaini: The poems reflect the period when I was living in Afghanistan though some also draw on the time I was in the United States, while still in close contact with my family in Afghanistan. In a way, I have transformed my mental and emotional memories of living in Afghanistan into poetry. Most of the poems revolve around the thoughts I had while in Kabul; my reflections on family, and fragments of memory that were formed there. That is essentially the core of the collection.
ZT: Are the poems written in English?
Hussaini: Yes, the poems are written in English. I consciously followed the path of producing them in a second language. Because I was studying in the United States, my mind became immersed in the literature here. I had previously written poetry in Persian, but I never published it. In this collection, I also explore why I write in English. Elements like commas, periods, and the nuances of language — things that English-language poets might take for granted when writing in their first language — become more visible and open to questioning when you are writing in a second language. These questions created space for reflection and for searching for new meaning.
At times, the poems may visually resemble a Farsi ghazal on the page, but in form, structure, and language they do not fully operate as Farsi poetry. While writing them, I was undoubtedly thinking about home and about the everyday realities of Kabul — events that constantly shake those who live there. Tragedies such as the killing of Farkhunda Malikzada , suicide attacks, and political decisions all appear in the background of these poems.
ZT: Why did you choose Disbound for its title?
Hussaini: Disbound is a strange word in English. It refers to a book that has come apart — its binding torn, its spine broken. I chose this title because all of these poems are about my life in Kabul and my family. But when the fall of Kabul happened, the “home” that held these poems together came undone — its binding was broken and lost.
ZT: Could you tell us about the award your book received?
Hussaini: Yes, as you mentioned, the nomination process is entirely in the hands of nominators. Each year, there is a list of about 100 people involved in this process, and it changes annually. The entire process is anonymous, meaning that the writer has no idea whether they are even being considered. These nominators include writers who have previously won the award, as well as booksellers, editors, critics, and publishers.
Each nominator puts forward one writer in the categories of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, or drama. Then six judges read all 100 books and discuss them among themselves. I’ve been told the process takes about nine months. I had absolutely no idea until I won the Whiting Award for poetry — and even afterward, they did not reveal who the judges were or who nominated me. I think that part will likely never be made public.
When they informed me, I was completely shocked. I truly did not know that my book had even been on the judges’ radar, especially since it had been published a few years earlier. Usually, literary awards are given in the same year a book is released.
ZT: Did you write your first poems in Farsi?
Hussaini: I don’t clearly remember, but I think it goes back to childhood. My sister tells a story that before I even learned how to write or started school, I would ask her to write down the poems I had in mind. I never really considered publishing my poetry in Farsi, because those were my early works, and I had a deep sense of fear toward the tradition and canon of Farsi poetry.
At the same time, not having full command of English allowed me to worry less about such expectations and focus more on expressing my inner and outer states. Also, here in the United States, my access to Farsi books has been far more limited compared to English-language literature. I think that, too, has played a role in distancing me from Farsi as a language of writing.
ZT: In one of your interviews, you said, “No text other than a close reading of Afghan literature can accurately reflect my human condition.” In your view, how much can Afghan literature guide those who are engaged in literary work under these conditions? What books from Afghan literature would you recommend to read today?
Hussaini: It’s a difficult but very important question. Afghan literature over the past 40 years has been shaped by war, and the instability of these times has had a dispersing effect on the psyche of Afghan writers. This is reflected both within texts — stories, novels, and poetry — and even in forms of nonfiction writing.
To separate and analyze this condition from within the works themselves is difficult, but also rewarding. Some writers, in confronting these upheavals, have turned to metaphorical writing. In my view, this may sometimes reduce the immediacy of their impact but certainly not their value.
The books I am personally drawn to are often simpler, in the sense that they are grounded more directly in lived reality. I have also taken it upon myself to translate some of these works. I would mention the novels of Khosraw Mani and Kawah Jibran, and the poetry of Maral Taheri. I also recommend the short stories of Asef Soltani and the novel Let Me Write for You by Nahid Mehrgan. Among poets, the works of Maryam Mitra, Asef Hussaini, Reza Mohammadi, and Ruhollah Amini are all significant.
In particular, Nahid Mehrgan’s novel is a book I find myself thinking about a great deal these days. It is a very important work. Sometimes I wonder whether I could translate it into English or whether it is even translatable. I’m not sure if I have answered your question precisely, but these are my reflections.
ZT: When you mentioned the novel Let Me Write for You, I felt that you had already answered that question quite precisely.
Hussaini: Ms. Mehrgan has written the book in a Herati dialect. In fact, she created a distinct language for the novel. The story itself is also deeply layered; it gives voice to the pain of Afghan women.
ZT: In that same conversation, you said that people in Afghanistan do have a voice, but that their voices are muted. How can poetry bring that voice out of silence? I tend to think of poetry as something for the future—how can it be used to express the present?
Hussaini: The kind of poetry that endures into the future is poetry that captures the depth of a human being on the page. For us Afghans, this is very difficult to achieve, because we are constantly confronted with grand narratives that have, in many ways, suspended life as a whole. In such a condition, how can one write something that is truly one’s authentic self?
I believe that if we can bring who we truly are onto the page, then we have done something meaningful. History and poetry are deeply intertwined. Our poetry, therefore, must reflect this entanglement with history. Perhaps, if there is ever an opportunity to step outside of history, even briefly, and to turn inward, a person might then be able to create work that belongs fully to the present moment.
ZT: There is another line from your remarks that stood out to me. You said, “Afghans are bearing the consequences of failed imperial projects.” I rephrased it as “Afghan women are paying the price for the failed projects of male politicians.” Do you think that is accurate?
Hussaini: To some extent, yes. Women have historically not been part of these processes, at least not before the governments of Hamid Karzai and Ashraf Ghani. During the republic, women did gain some level of participation. But, if we take a broader view, it is not only women — men, children, and people from all ethnic groups in Afghanistan who have endured immense suffering and loss. In different ways, we are all victims.
ZT: When you refer to “imperial hearts” or “exploitative minds,” who exactly do you mean? Those who occupied and ruled the country, or those who came claiming to rebuild but failed to do so?
Hussaini: I mean all of us, precisely. We all carry responsibility. Even I, as an individual, must reflect on where I stand and to what extent my own perspective might be shaped by imperial or colonial ways of thinking.
ZT: I translated a line from one of your poems: “Perhaps the father will die before the cases are reviewed.” Do you realize that this poem feels as if it was written about me?
Hussaini: My own father also passed away on July 15, 2021, less than a month before the fall of the republic and the return of the Taliban. The fact that your father passed away on the same date — what a striking coincidence. Khosraw Mani, in his novel Death and His Half-Brother, speaks about these moments in time that separate people, and how we often fail to see just how similar our lives have become, even as we grow further apart.
ZT: Despite this distance, are you still in touch with women in Afghanistan after the fall?
Hussaini: Unfortunately, not much. Most of the people I knew have left Afghanistan. I don’t have close personal contact with women inside the country anymore — only through social media, or by reading about Afghan women through Zan Times.
ZT: A final question: In Afghanistan, despite immense danger — and in a society where people can so easily pass judgment even on a woman’s life — girls in different languages (Pashto, Farsi, Uzbek and others) continue to hold poetry circles and write together online. For example, my sister-in-law, who was once a judge, turned to poetry as a way of coping. What message would you give to them to help them remain hopeful?
Hussaini: I understand why someone would turn to poetry in such terrifying conditions. Writing allows a person to feel their own human worth. Despite all the political or familial violence around them, when someone writes, they come to see that their pain is connected to a broader human experience. It is a shared human pain.
Writing gives them the space to be their true selves, to recognize that they have value and that their thoughts are deep and meaningful. No one, not even the Taliban, can take that away from them. My message is simple: keep writing. It is one of the few things that allows a person to come to know themselves.
