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A self-driving train with a clumpy Slavic name; a wispy hotel in the Algerian desert; Beirut of the near-future, waltzing between dry and wet spells — these are only some of the distinctive locations of Sara Saab’s stories. If she were a painter, she would be a consummate landscapist. As a writer, though, she is a self-proclaimed pragmatist, exploring the sensory qualities of the worlds she puts to page. And while her characters burn and beam for attention, you get the feeling that they know that they are being up-staged by the backdrop, that their destinies emerge from their settings.

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The first workshop of Photosynthesis took place in Berlin at the Theaterhaus Berlin Mitte on August 22, 2018 through a collaboration with Masrah Ensemble. Masrah Ensemble is a nonprofit theatre company and organization that makes, develops, and fosters research and criticism of theatre with a focus on the Arab stage, challenging prevailing ideas of what theatre should be, where it should take place, and to whom it belongs. Onstage: 2 Gardeners 3 (or more, or fewer) audience participants 3 (or more, or fewer) chairs 3 (or more, or fewer) terra cotta pots or buckets or other receptacles filled with soil.

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 المعجم مجمع والمعنى نعمى                                                                             الطرب رطب و الكلمة ملكةالحبرحرب والفكر كفر                                                                                    الضمير مريض والجوع وجعالأمل ألم و الصراحة حصارة    

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نزل الراعي ع بيروت حامل كاميرا فات بمظاهرة ع اساس الروس بالوعي مزنرة التقى ب الايجو والابوي وهوي طول عمرو تشاركي بياكل من النفس الصحن بلا نتورة ما لقا غير ستو جوا الكادر قال لحالو مين هاو؟ مين القمر مين الشمس ليش المثقف بدر؟ فركب السيارة قدام كونو بحب الشوفرة قرر الشوفير يشحط فريم !لحظة ل يطبش المشورة منعرف انو الظلم موجود من اول كف كلتو عن اختي لي ذنبا قلم حمرة ب ايام الطيشرة وعرفنا البضاعة مغشوشة من لما الصار الحمص بعلبة صغيرة متل سيغار المفخرة وين الوعي وين الولد الصغير قدام كل هالمسخرة عنف وحروبات ونظام اكل حقنا ونحنا حقنا بين كتافنا وبلا كل هالشوششرة عقلك حقك ف قبل ما

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.طلعةُ النويري .هذه الطلعةُ الغريبة، الجميلةُ بمحالِّها الصغيرة  أمشي وأمشي ولا تنتهي الطريق… كلُّ شيءٍ اسودُ هنا! أنا وفستاني الطويلُ وليل. اليومَ مات جدّي. لكنَّ اجتياحَ هذا السوادِ لطلعةِ النويري وكلَّ تلكَ الجرائِدِ التي تباعُ في كلِّ مكان، جعلتني اظنُّ أنَّ من مات هو غاندي الصغير. أنا لم أرَه، زهراءُ قالت لي. ربّما هي قتلتْه، بسبب لعنتِها تلك. ففي كلِّ مرةٍ تزورُ شخصاً مريضاً يموت. وهي زارت جدي أمشي وأمشي ولا تنتهي الطريق. تقولُ أمي إنّ هذهِ الطُرُقاتِ كانتْ أسواقاً شعبية. فبدأتُ أرى في خيالي بائعي الخضارِ والفواكهِ يصرخونَ، والشوارعَ مكتظةً بالناسِ، والمباني قصيرةً، والألوانَ في كلِّ مكان. ولكنْ ما الذي

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by Widad Ben Moussa, translated from the Arabic by Bacem A. Essam   GRATITUDE You are as subtle as water, On wiping off my flesh the spatter Of the very pain register. عرفان لك رقة الماء وانت تمحو عن جسدى سيرة الألم   SPRING Your thirst: do you remember it? There, only me could get it slaked نبع عطشك هل تذكره؟ لم يكن يحلو له غير نبعى   CONTRADICTION Love would be tight Were it ever compared To my ineffable sentiment تضاد الحب ضيق جدا أمام شساعة عواطفى   DROWNING Into love, I deeply  swim Outward, I then climb; Chanting  in your name. غريقة أغوص عميقا فى الحب أصعد إلى السطح شادية باسمك   FLIGHT I do NOT possess a wing to fly, But I have, here, enough joy Thereby I can flap up high. تحليق لا أملك الجناح

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by Marilyn Hacker, Translated from the English by Rana Issa and Suneela Mubayi In her 1986 collection Love, Death, and the Changing of the Seasons,* American poet and translator Marilyn Hacker writes what could be described as a novel-in-verse, telling a first-person story about falling head over heels in love with Rachel, in a breathless romance that throttles through its own track towards heartbreak while the poet’s daily life continues to press and prod on. A child in tow, a teaching job, and life’s other mundane routines clash with the tempo of the exploding romance that takes her to France, to produce a

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by Yuri Herrera, translated from the Spanish by Lisa Dillman The bottle of juice began vibrating like a telephone. I brought it to my ear and heard nothing, then came a riiing riiing, tho more like a deep gravelly ruhhhn ruhhhn, as the bottle vibrated. I unscrewed it and brought it to my ear and heard someone say: “The pot, uncover the soup pot.” And the call dropped. I hung up, or rather, screwed back on, and put the juice back in the refrigerator. “Who was it?” she asked from the bedroom. “Nobody,” I said. I turned and touched the pot. Still warm, even tho it had been a

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by Ahmad Shafie, translated from the arabic by Humphrey Davies The poem is by Egyptian writer Ahmad Shafei and comes from his verse collection: 77 (Cairo: Kutubkhan, 2017), where it is untitled but numbered 51. Translated by Humphrey Davies Birds have no hands. They don’t expect a crutch in old age Or a pat on the back in their moment of weakness Or rings Or keys Or a goodbye wave.   Poetry? They sing it and don’t care. History? They shit in the air. Life? They wing it. Death? They die alone.               الطيور                        لا يدي لها لا تنتظر في شيخوختها سندًا ولا في ضعفها ،تربيتةً بلا خواتمَ لا مفاتيحَ                                            .لا تلويحة في وداع   والقصائد؟ .تزقزقها ولا تبالي والتاريخ؟ .تخرأ من

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