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November 2021

"Nine Ancestors" by Mae Anne Chokr I didn't think the stories we would tell you about your childhood would be like mine. I thought yours would be about cobbled streets, afternoon teas, the books that your father and I took too long to write, all the extra days you stayed in and all the extra hours you took on your way out, three countries, four apartments, and one indefatigable little stroller.   The stories your teta and jeddo told me were different. They related how, when your uncle Mehdi was ready to be born, on the day of the Israeli invasion of Beirut

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Non-Fiction
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"Absence" by Omid Shekari This particular metaphor will not be a worm in a shot glass of chemotherapy. It will be invisible to the human eye, soundless to the human ear, free of smell and taste, and untouchable. In this way it will connect historically to its struggle for autonomy along its long and winding road to androgyny. (Sounds like a Beatles song, but isn't.) The Big C was first discovered by Hippo-crates, the so-called "Father of Medicine," circa 400 B.C., on the island of Greece.  Hippocrates did not really discover the Big C. He simply named something carcinoma that had existed for all time-before

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Poetry
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"Can't Go" by Omid Shekari For months we'd been monitoring your news           as if you were a broadsheet, and I'd trace       the outline of your every response so I could recount it precisely. The light was always     on in the window, the mountains always                                                                   far away.         Then I went and missed

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acrylic paint, Poetry
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"Solitude" by Rafik El Hariri The body splits breath in two, goes on bifurcating it in pressure chambers for keeping alive. The body regathers breath: expelling toxins gave birth to speech. So far  illness rubbed me gravely once. I sought cure by any means necessary as if illness is a labor union that science must squash. My union was with killers who until recently  (since our dawn of apes) we didn't know existed-  or if we did, couldn't treat-an occult clot that ceaselessly migrates and dissolves until it takes up residence, settles disaster. Illness rubbed me and I didn't care  for visitors. They loved me. I understood their concerns about their fears  for themselves, of themselves, their questions and eavesdropping.  Then it

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Poetry
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* كُتبَ هذا المقال بعد أشهرٍ من انفجار مرفأ بيروت في 4 آب 2020، قبل الانهيار الكبير.   تمّوز 2019، على ما أعتقد. كانت تلك المرّة الأولى التي اتّفقنا فيها، صديقتي وأنا، أن نخرج سويّاً بصيغة "المُواعدة". بطبيعة الحال، قصدنا الحمرا، فُقاعتنا. احتسينا كؤوساً قليلةً، ترامَينا أحاديثَ كثيرة، ثم قرّرنا، قبل انتصاف الليل بقليل، أن نتمشّى في الشارع الرئيسيّ. أذكر أنّنا مشينا بسرعة، وضحكنا بسرعة، ثمّ تسلّلنا شطرَ زاروبةٍ فيها واجهة زجاجيةٍ تلمع. شارعٌ مظلمٌ وضوءٌ مسلّطٌ عليها، وفي داخلها مجسّمات لطيورٍ صغيرة معلّقة بحبالٍ شفّافة. "هول عصافير سمعان"، وتبادلنا قبلتنا الأولى، صديقتي وأنا، وعصافير سمعان تحدّق بنا.     هو سمعان خوّام، فنّان تشكيلي

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arabic, Non-Fiction
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About Us
Rusted Radishes: Beirut Literary and Art Journal was founded in the English Department of the American University of Beirut in 2012 with the intention of creating a space for both emerging and established writers who have a connection to Lebanon.
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Letter from the Editor | كلمة المحرّرة

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