Ever since poet Lina Al-Tayyibi took charge of "The Mint of the Family," she has been captivated by the herb whose fragrance leaps over walls and perfumes neighbors' doors. For this adventurous poet, words are verdant, fragrant, flavorful, and tasteful. From them, a silence is born, completing her prayer. She dreams of many wings so she can soar to wider horizons. Between what Syria is going through today and what this poet, whose spirit is imbued with the fragrance of homelands, aspires to, we journey through the emotions and literary experiences of this space's guest. Here is the text of the interview:

• When did the spark of creativity ignite in Lina Al-Tayyibi's soul?

•• I grew up in my grandfather’s house. The family library at that time contained books of different orientations and diversity. The book of Al-Mutanabbi was based on the book of Nizar Qabbani, and with them, as I remember at that time, was a book by Ansi Al-Hajj.

A library that brought together Al-Qasimi in “The World Is Not a Mind” alongside Mustafa Mahmoud and Abdul Rahman Al-Badawi, novels with consumerist frameworks and translated creative novels.

My grandmother, who only completed the fifth grade of elementary school, was an avid reader who devoured all books. My aunt wrote poetry, and so did my other aunt; they wrote in a style similar to Qabbani, and then my uncle in his love poems, a struggle between the old and the new, between tradition and modernity.

I remember that I used to imitate my aunt Mona at first; I was very influenced by her. But my first poem was written when I was 11 years old, and it was an attempt at meter and rhythm, and I wrote it about Lebanon.

• What writing skills gave you the courage to publish?

•• The home first had a profound impact on my development. My diverse and sometimes contradictory readings, my openness to opposing viewpoints to understand his point of view, and consequently my refusal to be complacent with the prevailing or existing norms, my belief that difference is not always better, but that a genuine belief in difference can create something better.

• Who deserves credit for your experience?

I can't say there's one single person who deserves credit, but rather a constellation of poets: Al-Maghout with his rebellious spirit, Unsi al-Hajj with the mysticism of his words, and Said Akl with the elegance of his vocabulary. Then, later on, came the poets of the prose poem of that era, such as Nouri al-Jarrah, Amjad Nasser, Salah Faiq, and Sarkon Boulos. But the female element was absent at that time, except in terms of shaping my culture. I didn't find any real influence from the pioneering women of that era, such as Nazik al-Malaika, May Ziadeh, Ghada al-Samman, or others. Perhaps the poet who caught my attention at that time was Saniya Saleh, who was overshadowed by Al-Maghout's brilliance. As for the one who published my work for the first time in an official newspaper, it was the poet Shawqi Abi Shaqra in the newspaper "An-Nahar," and this step was one of my most important motivations, especially when he asked me to go to the accounting department to collect my payment. That day, that amount meant a lot to me, even though it was a small amount, and even though my family were well-off, but when I held the (sweat) of my writing, nothing in this world was worth it.

• In an environment that included Al-Maghout, Mamdouh Adwan, Ali Al-Jundi, and Nadhir Al-Azma, weren't you hesitant to write?

•• I was raised between Lebanon and Syria, between my grandfather’s family home in Lebanon and my mother’s home in Damascus. Lebanon was more open to poetic experiences and to culture in general. There, Arab intellectuals used to meet in almost permanent conferences and festivals. Perhaps that’s why I belonged to the broader concept. Until the publication of my first collection (Sun in a Closet), and despite my presence in poetry before the publication of the collection, I was hesitant to say the words “I am a poet.” But after the publication of the collection, I found my collection standing on the library shelves alongside poets I had been hesitant to call. At that time, I admitted to myself that I wanted to be distinguished and I did not want to be a number.

• Whose taste is associated with, or intersected with?

Muhammad al-Maghout and Ansi al-Hajj were both Sufi poets. Ansi al-Hajj always captivated me with his elegance—of course, I'm not speaking about him personally, but there was an intertwining of the person and the text. Al-Hajj possessed a flowing yet impactful language, imbued with a profound philosophical depth. Later, I even encountered the work of those who published after me, or whose experiences I came across later due to geographical distance.

• How did the reader and critic receive your texts?

The praise, sometimes for me as a woman, sometimes for me as beautiful (at that time), was a criticism that greatly wronged me and negatively affected me. There was a kind of celebration of the female form rather than the poet, with phrases like "silk fingers etching the ink of the poem." But amidst this, there were those who criticized me for criticizing the prose poem, and there were those who celebrated my work neutrally or criticized me neutrally.

• What was the first collection of poems and when was it published?

•• Sun in a Closet, 1988.

• Did the first edition place a burden on you, and how did you overcome it?

Typically, no writer or artist surpasses a completed stage until they encounter the light. The moment you publish a book or exhibit your paintings, a new starting point is immediately established within you, just as when you construct a building. After "Sun in a Closet," I felt I had become a poet with a distinct presence, but I also had that fear of not surpassing myself... for the celebration of a firstborn is usually not the same as the celebration of a second.

• Why have some described you as a rebellious poet?

I don't know if I'm a rebel! What I do know is that since childhood I've adopted the principle that what I'm afraid to say publicly shouldn't be done in secret. This has nothing to do with any religious or philosophical interpretation; it means that I also wouldn't write a poem that breaks a widely accepted taboo if I couldn't at least discuss that taboo with those around me. The decision has to come from within, and when it does, I become a hurricane.

• How does your poetry triumph over spatial alienation and emotional estrangement?

One day, while I was at the Medellín International Poetry Festival in Colombia, the festival committee gave me a list of the areas where I would recite poetry. They said: The focus has been on evenings for you in places far from the city and almost remote. There live old people who have been left alone, suffering from loneliness. We found in your translated poems a beautiful meaning of loneliness, and how a person can make a whole world out of a small room. Spatial alienation is not necessarily emotional alienation, but the feeling of loneliness in a world teeming with humanity is alienation.

• Through what eyes do you see the world?

•• Dark and unjust, where human brutality has killed, and in order to survive we must cling to our inner selves.

A quote by Nietzsche has become very much associated with my memory since the beginning of the Syrian revolution: “Beware when you fight monsters, lest you become one of them, and always remember when you stare into the abyss, the abyss is staring back at you.”.

• How do you interpret the distance between the specters of September and the events of December?

We need a major overhaul, a mending of the cracks within us all. Speaking for myself, I've lost so much. I've lost that spirit of mine, that woman who fears for the swallow's song in winter. Blood mixed with dust has become commonplace. The wounds of the soul are deep and terrifying. When I look around me now, and consider the overall picture, yes, we removed the dictator and triumphed, but our people need repair and rebuilding. Our souls are wounded, and the scars of the little dictator are still present in each of us to a great extent (of course, I'm not generalizing). But I know we must temper our emotions for the sake of Syria's future. We need to build bridges with others and understand their perspectives, which seems to require a great deal of work among the intellectuals of the Syrian people.

We Syrians must unite, setting aside our differences, whether intellectual or ideological. This requires time and a system that strikes deep within.

• What text would you like to write?

•• This is a novel I've worked on for a long time, but I've always neglected it due to emotional fluctuations, mostly related to Syria, as well as my whims. I hope to finish my novel, which is almost complete and currently undergoing careful reading and revision.

• What does it mean for a poet to be in a relationship with an artist?

I was connected to an intellectual before he was an artist, and culture is the essence of our lives. My dreams of homelands where the sun shines unite me with Naseer Shamma, and we were also united by principles. Pain and joy, elation and sorrow, brought us together, and these are concepts that transcend the artist and the poet.

• Are you reassured about Syria, and what are you afraid of for it?

Now, as we say, "Syria is on the brink of disaster," but I have hope in its intellectuals. We have grown accustomed to facing fierce attacks over the past 14 years. Let's say, as Gustave Le Bon put it in *The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind*, "The masses are irrational." I believe that Syrian intellectuals must now stand up for Syria first and foremost, setting aside any ideologies. The Syrian people need the awareness that the previous regime successfully suppressed among a significant segment of the population.

This is a difficult phase, and its full implications are not yet clear. It is wise not to become complacent, nor to succumb to fear. I fear for Syria because of us—the Syrians—if we do not come together. If we do come together and understand one another, we will build the future together. I also fear the extremism that the previous regime fostered.

• Which way did the sun turn from your closet?

•• Perhaps she is still waiting for me to open the closet... and the time has come.