لم نعلم أن الشبل ليس شبلاً بالفعل إلا عندما سُرِقَتْ دراجته الهوائية. لم يجرؤ عندها على القيام بأي شيء لاستردادها. كل ما فعله هو أنه أطلق بعض العيارات النارية في الهواء من شبَّاك غرفته، ثم استلقى على الفرشة الإسفنجية على الأرض، وراح يذرف الدمع من عينيه المفتوحتين على وسعهما، ساهماً في السقف، وشاعراً بحنين قوي إلى أمه. ومسدسه إلى جانبه.
الدراجة كانت هديةً من أمه. لكننا لم نره يقودها إلا مرات قليلة. كان يعرضها في صندوق زجاجي مستطيل قريب من المدرسة التي في شارعنا. من أجل أن يراها الجميع. لكن أحداً لم يكن حتى ليفكر لحظة بإمعان النظر بها. فالشبل قد
The ceasefire held; the war was over. In its wake, I decided to visit my family in Nazareth, who during the war had seemed quite far away from me.
After sleeping in (a rare treat) and after several cups of savored coffee, I left. It was dohr prayer when I strolled from my house to the city center, and not the best planned of departures — as being quite absent-minded I had neglected to remember that it was Friday.
Friday is, after all, the holy day of rest, when the streets of downtown Ramallah are emptied of prevailing chaos, and suffocating silence
I am not going to leave you
seam is thus created
the scalpel dormant within a reed instrument
neither current nor tested character
2 2 2 2 2
the result a speech act
there’s a wall where we shared
choices outside inside
see how rhythm milks noise
the visual immediate
once we start some say
cities also will.
For Hera, For Baba
The child falls asleepto the sound of the newsin Arabicin Aramaic.Prime minister decided tofuckon your deathbed. The child sleepsbut the reporter’s voiceis a lullabya lullabyto get the nightgoingflowingriverclean. The child sleeps asMarcel Ghanem’s voicecalmsthe vibrating nervestrees in the wood have been calling my name, Motherwhisperingthat soon, I will be a bride. I wore my white dress, Mother,and the child is still sleepingthe televisionis a boxfull of colorfuldreamsfaraway landsand unicorns. Men in suits and brandsbeautiful tiesties me, chokes me, Mother, I walked in the narrow streetsand the suncould not washthe dirty hands.
To the land of cemeteries
Dispatching Rainbows that end abruptly.
Led by a body charioted by Quranic verses
The sons followed.
As they dig and scratch the pavements of my streets to find pipes
We dug Hollow Grounds beneath a crumbling fortress to lay the memories of the father,
Surrounded by the grieving, the living, and the opportunists.
The sons live on
The sons now touch the ground,
They will plant future seeds.
Fathers next to fathers
Next to spouses and brothers
Next to sisters
Next to loved ones
Next to those swept by history.
The sun entered their home through a small window in the kitchen, stifled and timid, like an uninvited guest. The house was sparsely furnished — like mine when my kids and I first arrived. The walls were bare, displaying nothing but a padded black velvet wall hanging with the word Allah embroidered on it in gold sequins. The couch that Citizenship and Immigration provided was still the same muted beige, and still stiff as a fucking rock.
Abdel Razzak was sitting across from me. His legs were crossed and his hair was a luminous wave of sandy brown curls, forcefully slicked
Illustration by Ibrahim Kombarji
Yasma Early twenties.
Naji Yasma's father, in his fifties.
Fernande Barakat A single mother of two, in her late thirties. Playful, daring. Marlene and Olivier Fernande Barakat’s children.
Awad The building’s concierge, in his late twenties, Egyptian.
Ali The chauffeur.
Riad Halabi The building’s owner, in his late fifties.
Sylvie Karam An elegant woman in her fifities.
Robert Karam Sylvie Karam’s eldest son, in his early twenties.
Jean-Michel Karam Sylvie Karam’s younger son.
Kamil Saleh A man of thought, single, in his forties.
As the audience enters, Yasma and her father are seated on a modern brown divan in the middle of the stage facing
ZAMAN(( زمن :"a time, season, or period. In this case, "bad times."))
Yousef Early twenties.Ali Early twenties. Lights up on Yousef who is making the best of the balcony in his abandoned mansion in Syria. It is dusk. He unstacks two bamboo chairs and places them facing the audience. Between the chairs, he places a low table. He looks for a rag to dust off the furniture, but when he cannot find one, resorts to using his bare hand. He takes a bottle of arak, a bottle of water, and two glasses out of his backpack and places them on
A woman, who was mentally disturbed,
walked past me today muttering.
She said (I think to me),
“Fuck you blondie”
“who do you think you are?”
“walking around like you have all the time in the world”.
I was hurt, because
I’m not blonde. But pleased
that she perceived me as unhurried.
We communists are dead men on leave.
The clutter-smog of the desert-sky gallops
And this sadness: mountains of greyMounting grey – with the one wan hopeOf being equal music for the day… We are rested here; cosseted by anger,True. But girded and lifted, too,By the fallow furOf many years living like this, On leave: quiet, quiet, and deferred…Here’s the genie again, dressed in lightning-blues –She asks of me to name, in a minted list,The Who and the Who of the Who is Who. I demur,By levels of mangy loss, made to concurWith anything, all that’s hazeAnd all the homelessness Of