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"Sea Change" by Heather Miller Translated from the Arabic by Rusted Radishes It was in the midst of an August day, but suddenly the city felt cold. They said it was war, and it was not war. They were idols of stone and tyranny, and the sea was calm when they rained glass down onto the city.  * Glass under the feet of pedestrians. On the asphalt, and inside shoes. Glass under teeth. Glass that tastes like glass. Glass in children's toys. In their bedrooms. Glass under the television. Glass in front of building entrances - the buildings without doors. Glass

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prose, Translations
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"Built Sea 3" by Lina Hassoun "The true image of the past flits by. The past can be seized only as an image that flashes up at the moment of its recognizability, and is never seen again." - Walter Benjamin At night, you can usually find bats doing playful death dives across the Cairo skyline. Bats usually scare me, but in these moments of stillness they are my comrades. I imagine that they welcome me into their nocturnal journeys. That they can sense I too prefer to fly at night, fighting the coming of daylight. In my anthropomorphic imaginations, I

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Non-Fiction, prose
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Note  I was hospitalised for fifteen days at the AHEPA, Thessaloniki's General Teaching Hospital. The diagnosis: pneumonia and empyema; that is, pus-filled lungs.  The treatment: surgery.  The gaze: eighteen pictures.  In medical terminology, Personal Anamnesis denotes a patient's medical history. For a photographer, it means the itinerary of his gaze through the domain of darkness. And when you look at darkness straight on, it's somewhat tamed.  Paris Petridis       Published by Agra and University Studio Press, 2017

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Photo Essay
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"The Unseen" by Bilal Tarabey I wake up late today, near noon.  A ray of sun shines through the narrow space between my curtains, leaving my bedroom otherwise in darkness. These days, I either sleep too much or too little. But no amount of sleep seems to matter; I never feel well-rested the following day.  I sigh and rub my face, massaging my eyes and forehead, and I get out of bed. Nothing cures the headache that often comes. Sluggishly, my feet carry me forward. Moving them feels like lifting blocks of cement. After I brush my teeth and wash

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Fiction
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"I've Got the Love Handles, But I Can't Handle Love" by Tanja Van Deer some dayscaught between clamping down onprocessed food or not eatingat all; ferociously demanding rightsor considering the futility of change in front of this pageI am a sell-outashamed of my falteringwords, the aftermath of a burnt out mind I am a sell-outthese are not the wordsI meant to write, but i can'tstop themfrom escaping their confines I cannot halt this exodus some days I recklessly spew things outor repeatsayings from other giants but at times my words are emptyblurted out in hasteor by means

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Poetry
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"Magic in Bones" by Rafik El Hariri We made great neighboursyou and I. Like the time   I lobbed string frommy window to yours, forging a zip-line,a tight rope-bridge  stretched wall-to-wall.We held on, feeling the tug of each other's hands. Puzzled,you mouthed me a question I answered in mime, and in no timeyou were in on the scam. On my side. Soon we were synchronous:licking frayed ends,  lacing them through the basesof pierced tin cups. Our fingers ringed with twined fibres, we bothtied knots on top of knots until the cups held, as obviousyet genius as a bathroom

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Poetry
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Photograph by Tania Traboulsi Words without Music The only belonging I actually lost on August 4 was my lyrics notebook. Although our little apartment suffered heavy damage, nothing was completely lost. Doors and windows had flown out of their frames, a table's legs broke, plants fell out of pots, our newly bought TV split in half, a bookshelf shattered into millions of pieces. Some things could be fixed, others had to be thrown out. But nothing disappeared. Nothing except my lyrics notebook.  I left our Mar Mikhael apartment that night and asked my friends who went back the next day to look

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Non-Fiction
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Still from "In Mansoura You Left Us" A film review of In Mansourah, You Separated Us An old man is standing. Behind him, large rocks are followed by a horizon with mountains covered in brown, ochre, and dark green. He wears a gray hat and a jacket that seems too large for his nervous body. On the jacket, we see military insignia, green and golden. He's standing straight almost as if he were taking an official shot. The camera does not move. Suddenly, we hear the director's voice, as she asks in French, "How come he survived and seventy-three others died?"

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Film Review
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"Absence" by Omid Shekari When I think of Humphrey Davies, I think of Uncle Humph. I call him uncle not out of a juvenile sense of biological attachment, but as belonging to that branch of the lineage of translators which I endeavor to be a part of. I write of Uncle Humph's passing and find myself unwilling to acknowledge it. Unwilling and resentful. How could he suddenly up and leave us like this with no warning, when we needed him so much? When I agreed to Rana Issa's offer to co-translate Ahmad Faris al-Shidyaq's travelogue three years ago,

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Non-Fiction, prose, Tribute
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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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