On August 8, 2020, pellet shotguns were used on protestors at close distance and critical body zones. The Health Ministry, following the arrival of injured protesters to the hospital, attempted to put a stop to financial coverage of treatments that is usually granted to injuries caused by protest suppression. This was only reversed after the ministry faced pressure by the Lebanese Order of Physicians and hospital administrations.
The following describes the inhumane oppression practiced by the internal security forces along with the armed infiltrators in civilian wear. The inhumanity and extent of injury the medical community witnessed is beyond words. This is
Photograph by the author
One of the biggest conundrums of the Beirut explosion is probably the burden of knowing how to live in its aftermath. What words are there to describe what has happened? What meaning is there to give? What do we do next? As we were scrambling to make sense of living an economic and financial collapse, as we were trying to figure out what it means to live through a pandemic, on August 4, all the webs of meaning we had spun suddenly melted into air.
Was it fireworks? Was it an Israeli air missile? Was it 2,750 tonnes
—for the refugees, lost in the crossing
this is the transcript
the boat not
not not the first such
floating at sea
we do not know
and cry against it
not fall within
"David Adjaye's Trash" by Dala Nasser
Translated from Chinese by Jeffrey Thomas Leong
My petition denied already half a year with no further news.
Who knew that today, I would be deported back
to Tang Mountain?
At mid-ship, I’ll suffer waves, and pearl-like tears will fall.
On a clear night, three times I’ll find the bitterness hard to bear.
清 船 誰 批
夜 中 知 消
三 捱 今 半
思 浪 日 載
苦 珠 撥 無
難 淚 回 消
堪 落 唐 息
。 ； ？
"Anzali Port" by Milad Karamooz
Today Jenin flooded, pond turned sea,
dissolved horizon, and children made a boat of foam and twine,
let wind catch sail and chart toward a place that would accept
a child of no passport
Children of the Jordan Valley crowned me in poppies,
braceleted me in catkins and anemone blooms, made me
double necklaces of daisies. How the desert blossoms.
How children in grief open the way nature
lifts petals to light, again and again and again
never ceasing to amaze bees and earth
Settlers set fire to the olive trees again,
their seasonal protest, their terror
among the peace bows.
"Cirque du Liban" by Ieva Saudargaité
(for Kazi H. Shehabi)
Every alighting is an ode to the past
though the field of poppies
on the poet’s book didn’t rinse
wet out of her eyes.
It was the time she was living in that did;
the doe tossed open
in the backyard; a coyote
had disrobed her delicate ribs,
the elm beside the culvert swale
deciphered the scene,
like a detective’s gloved hand
that offered no respite.
The earth had retraced its voice
away from rain so she stopped
gazing at the ground
and crammed her drought
into the sky. Her father
had died the summer before—
On snapchat, Hajj pilgrims
"Augmented Geometries" by Chloé Hojeily
for Jalal Dhiyab Thijeel
When it is night enough to uncoil
Nas from your pocket radio, you slip him
into the hush of a classroom—
its cluster of small seats flooded
with rainwater the color of an oiled moon.
From the window, two men
you do not see, lift the edges
of their dishdashas like brides
afraid of dirtying their dress, wait
for the flicker
of classroom lights, for the dark
that will drink the rocking shouts.
Your fast and quiet
blood, thinned with water,
pools under the dust
of the streetlamp, the static hum;
they step over and leave you
to be found.
"Moonstruck Blocks" by Blocksfinj
by Yeşim Özsoy, translated from Turkish by Buğra Giritlioğlu (with the help of Daniel Scher)
i’m swimming in a sea charged with silence.
unaware of the sediments in my body,
imagining i’ll reach some place,
in the certitude of a sea’s vast body which cannot be boxed up and shrunk,
in a sea, forever bereft of color,
with my small dream boxes, never concealed,
i miss the boundlessness of a dream.
i succumbed and shrank as tiny ants
writhing before a wild wind,
in a sea’s colorless, silent comfort
with a longing for nothing but love and in return for pagefuls of tears
i sold my boxes.
with the shame
"All Good Things" by Basir Mahmood
dates from Baghdad's airport
fatly nested in paper sleeves
all that city's sweetness
in our stomachs far away not there
chew another before the first is swallowed and
look to the sea!
look away from the sea!
sunlight on paper face
sunlight on telephone wire
sunlight a puddle this ocean to nowhere
[where once i saw a turtle and never again]
ceiling of orthodox blue of pressed powder of spilled ink
the tiny window with its tiny colors and child's hand