Interviewed by Lillian O’neill (she/her)

(she/her) @hudathegoddess

This article was written on the lands of the Jagera people and pays respect to their connection to country. Sovereignty was never ceded.

There is a tenderness in the way that art provides truth, provides perspective. It can create the softness that life sometimes lacks as it unfolds itself in front of us, yet it can also suggest a harsh reality that has the possibility to reassure or juxtapose one’s own. And while the world picks us up in its tornado and thrusts us in many directions, it is through our creative practices that we try to make sense of it all. No matter the form, one’s creative practice can build paths to each other that wouldn’t have been there otherwise. But what informs one’s creative practice? What aspects of our environment impose themselves so deeply that we feel the need to explore them outwardly? Is it the need to educate? The need to relate? Is it the need to feel understood, not necessarily by others, but by yourself? Art holds the possibilities that our everyday reality doesn’t.

Huda The Goddess (Huda Fadlelmawla) is a multi-faceted creative and academic based out of Meanjin, and is someone who’s work, I believe, offers meaning to anyone who witnesses it. After winning the National Final in the 2021 Australian Poetry Slam, Huda’s career has been steered to prioritise her work as an improvised spoken poet and creating spaces for women of colour to feel inspired to do what they want to do – to ‘make that decision’. I met with Huda in the days prior to an event she was organising called ‘All Eyes on Sudan’, which was held to bring awareness to what is currently happening in Sudan, and how anti-blackness plays a role in the continuation of the ignorance that surrounds issues within African countries.

Could you tell me a little bit about yourself? 

My name is Huda Fadlelmawla, but I’m mostly known as Huda The Goddess. It was a given name, but I’m also tired of people mispronouncing my name and spelling it wrong in everything. I’m predominantly known as a spoken word poet and an author. I’ve done a theatre show that went on tour called Betwixt, which I was also the writer for. I have a vinyl called Story of Another Soul; it’s a jazz vinyl. 

My academic work is as a cultural competency coach, I work throughout schools. I’m writing a research paper on the execution of cultural safety in the education department for African diaspora kids. So, I built a program called the ‘Black Excellence Program’ that started off at Saint James High, that had about 60 to 150 kids. And then, it branched off and I did three other schools. The objective is setting a really safe space for African kids to be able to unpack big conversations that are important for them to find their position in society as black people who reside in a predominantly non-black country. So academically, I’m like a cultural safety expert and my job is explaining the African diaspora dialogue and how to insert that into safe implementation in school systems. 

A friend of mine asked me  the other day, ‘what’s a thing you do that people don’t know you for?’ and I don’t think a lot of people realise that culture and the black diaspora is my academic expertise. I have a research paper on that – that’s my job. But I think I’m a multi-faceted person. I’m an academic who happens to be an artist, and I think art allows my academic work to be easily digestible to the mass, because I don’t think anyone wants to just read a paper, unless you’re an academic, but you are more willing to listen to a poem or go to a theatre show or listen to a vinyl. My whole career has been trying to find a link between an academic who really cares about kids and wanting to elevate them through the education system and then also my complete and utter love for art.

Would it be correct to say that you are focusing on the spoken word aspect of your career right now? 

Yeah, I think more in the last three years the trajectory of my career changed because I got the opportunity. When I won state the first time it felt like a fluke. And then I went to nationals, and I was ready; I was on go. And I lost by 0.3. I thought, ‘screw this, I’m not doing this shit again. Wrap it up.’ And then I realised that if I don’t compete, there is no one to take my spot. 

I came into the scene because of a poet named Anisa Nandaula, who is now a full-time comedian. She was the black woman anchor, like the African black woman anchor for poetry here. I was very inspired by the way she held space, and you know, she really pushed me to do what I am doing. For me, it was leisure, I just love poetry. And then I realised that if I don’t compete, there is no one to take my spot. So I have to keep competing, until my presence inspires other black women to come on stage and do what I’m doing. (lLike Anisa Nandaula did for me.)

So, I did it the second time. Then I won state championships again, which I think I am the first person to do that in this city. Then I went to nationals, and I was like, ‘I’m not writing a poem. I’m not preparing.’ I didn’t even tell my friends. And I won. It was crazy, and it just changed my life. I went on tour, and I was the first Australian poet to be invited to the world championships in Belgium. So, I went and met the forty top poets in the world. It was incredible.

You mentioned that holding space for other women of colour is something that has driven you and your career, is this also something that is relevant to your creative process?

Oh – absolutely. It is very intentional. It continues to be an intentional practice. The first time I performed at Sydney Opera House was when I (was handed my crown?)) handed over my crown and I spent that whole tour being like I'm going to be one of the best people to ever do this tour. I'm going to be undeniably one of the best. I'm going to go hard at everything. I'm going to show up at everything. I will be remembered. This will be in the books. But not just for the sake of ego. Of course, there's a part of it where I know what I'm capable of and I want to be able to show my best foot forward in this position. I made a lot of sacrifices to go on that tour and do the tour the way that I did it. I spent that whole tour being like this is showing people what a person who looks like me is capable of. I had such really beautiful women during that tour that solidified the points of intentionality. 

One of my favourite moments was being at Byron Bay Writers Festival. I was on a regional tour on a bus for a couple of days. We got to Byron, and I had to be on stage an hour after. So I got in, dropped my bag, got changed, and I was on stage in front of 800 high school kids. I get on stage, and I perform a poem about my grandma – who I speak about quite often because she’s a very monumental person in my life – and there was a black girl standing in the front. She is bawling her eyes out crying. I had an interview after, so I didn’t have time to stand and talk to people. I am walking and she is talking to me. She said, ‘I really want to be a poet. I’ve never seen anyone like you do what you just did. It’s a big moment for me.’ And I just said, ‘Make a decision. Stick with that decision and follow it through.’ I had another performance the next day at Byron’s library, and I see her again. She told me she’d entered her first poetry competition the next day after meeting me, and she won. Her mum told me that she had never seen a black woman be vulnerable and open on stage and that inspired her. 

I think that if you are going to make an imprint on anybody, you make an imprint on people that are still writing their transcript of life. Those are the most crucial blueprint building stages. That’s why kids for me are so crucial to talk to. I think there is no Huda The Goddess as an artist without the impact and the connection I have with the youth community, and how much they’ve inspired me wanting to do that. 

You were born in Cairo. How impactful is the proxy war in Sudan right now on your everyday and further your creative practice? I know you are focused on the fundraiser, ‘All Eyes on Sudan’, how is that unfolding?

I was actually in Sudan at the start of the turnover of the dictator. I went to bed, woke up and we had lost internet. There were rallies and protests, and I was just staring down (from the window). I was like, well shit – what is going on? But it’s (it was) also an empowering moment as a refugee and an immigrant to be a part of, because I saw my history change at that moment. If I’m being transparent, I feel a deep imposter syndrome, because I left. My mother fled Sudan a long time ago, and even though we had gone back, and I speak Arabic, and I engaged in my cultural dialogue, I didn’t know if I was the right person to be the voice of this. For a while my priority was being there for my mum and supporting my family. This is real life for me, this is every day. I still have family stuck in the middle of nowhere. I still have people that are in the middle of it. I think that makes it even more difficult for me, because also as I’m fundraising for these organisations, there’s the aspect that I’m also fundraising for my family’s protection. There’s a synergy in that – it’s a difficult conversation to unpack. 

I’ve had to ask myself, how do I come to the forefront? How do I aid in the humanisation of Sudanese people, how do I aid in the progress moving forward? 

It’s funny, because it brings me back to when I was really young as an artist, and I met an elder who was a professional public speaker. She asked me, ‘why is it that you speak?’ This happened when I was 23, I’m now 29. That question has never had the same answer. Every couple of years something gets added to it or readjusted. Before it was about being a voice-box of people, then it was about being within my own reality so that other people could reclaim their own voices, and now, it has become the voice of humanisation where I have to centre myself to make centring Sudan valid. I’ve built a repertoire or reputation for being the person who speaks the truth, that my art inspires feeling and that feeling inspires action. So now, this is the conversation. I have to be the person, not just to give statistics and historical information, but I really have to revive people’s humanity back into my community and rebuild that. It’s a difficult conversation to have. 

Do you feel that there is a dissonance between people in Australia and their understanding of the issues that people in Sudan are facing?

I think people just live in a bubble here – it’s such a privilege. The vast majority of Australia lives in this isolated concept. In the media, the only thing people have ever heard about Sudan was the rise up of these so-called gangs in Sydney and Melbourne. Most people couldn’t point to the country on a map. I’m having to find the balance of exposing the reality and the current conditions of the political climate in Sudan, and at the same time, remind people that Sudan was not always like this. Australia has weaponized incompetence to a level I’ve never seen. But nobody wants to be a part of them recovering themselves. Australia’s notion is if we stay uninformed, you can’t hold us liable. 

A lot of your work, in my opinion, seems guided towards informing and helping others through your practice. Would you say that this relationship between reality, activism, and art, is what informs your practice?

Art has been the only way for me to process my reality. It is the only way I process emotions. Beyond this interview, I don’t really talk about myself. My art is the only place in which you will know most of me. I’m comfortable transcribing my reality into art. Art is the only way that I can centre myself and not feel egotistical or selfish, because I feel an obligation to people all the time. Art is my therapy. It’s my revolution. It’s my connection to self. It’s my connection to community. It is my senses. For me, art enables me to breathe a little bit lighter. 

I think sometimes activism can feel like you’re beating a nail into someone’s head, and that person doesn’t even know the nail is actually keeping their skull together. It’s like I’m bracing you for the inevitable. People don’t want to hear that activism requires a high level of discomfort and pain. Activism is therapy for your morality, for your principles, for your inactions and for your actions. 

Artists are a reminder. You can’t just walk around like your actions and your feelings do not have greater consequences on the world. So as an artist, I’m going to make you feel something, and then hopefully that feeling will inspire action. But that’s also a big obligation, because we have to inspire so much more when our reality is those facts you don’t want to hear. I think artists are the historians of communities.

So, your fundraiser ‘All Eyes on Sudan’, how did you decide to organise it? Why you? 

I didn’t make the choice. I looked around and there was nobody else doing it. I spent a year looking around my community to see who I could support, who I could volunteer my time with. I spent a year volunteering for the Palestinian events and doing poetry and going to rallies, because that is my contribution. Because they already had a leader. My community didn’t have one. 

So, when people act like it’s a trope, it’s confusing. I didn’t ask for this shit. I don’t want to be running fundraiser events. But it needs to be done. Activists are people who see something that needs to be done and they do it. That’s it. It’s not a choice. It’s not a medal. 

After the fundraiser, what’s next?

Whatever I have to do. That’s it. If I have to run another event, I will. If I have to write a book and send proceeds, I will. If this could inspire a multitude of people to run an event and I help them, I would love that. I do not want to be the only person doing something for Sudan. Because then it’s ineffective. I cannot be the only person that’s the catalyst of a movement. This is not about desire – it’s about urgency. That’s the difference. That’s the reality. I can tell you that there are so many things that drive me, but I would like to know that when I am dust, when I am nothing but a feeling or a memory or a name on a tombstone or a happy conversation over coffee for my loved ones, that I left a legacy of awareness. And that I left a legacy of which I'm willing to evolve, even if it's at the expense of breaking the safe room I have, to build a bigger one. That's necessary. So – I say, I'm the artist who is the historian to myself and my community. 

I am the educator who is consistently being educated. I am the person that makes you see that I shouldn't have to be a well-spoken, articulate Sudanese woman to be heard and for my country to then hold power. But until we can change the narrative, I will do what I have to do to get us over the wall. 

Photograph 1 & 3:

Giorgia Bellini @giorgiabellini__photography

Photograph 2:

Daniel Saputra @danielsaputra.jpg