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"Callisto" by Omar Khouri, 2019, Gouache on 300 gsm rough Arches paper 111x77 cm You wonder, as you contemplate the world’s end,If you had done well, done right, by your unborn children.Your womb is no safe place for a child. You know this.Your womb cannot make life for this life.This you knew all along.You told yourself you can’t bear childrenThat the flesh would not stick for longWith each blood cycle, you told yourselfIs it because you knew, all alongThat you don’t want this life                 that you never didThat somehow you are here, because someone decidedThat the time

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Poetry
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Photograph by Sima Qunsol By Nadim Abdul-Hadi, translated from the Arabic by Madeline Edwards. 1 I remember, and I forget… I’m happy when I sit down again with my Amnesia. He is a dear friend. He is kind and tender. He prefers to listen, rather than speak. He comes to me when I’m feeling nostalgic. Sometimes he dresses up like some sort of court jester. Other times he wears a preacher’s cloak. We sit together in my living room, where he delights simply in stepping out of his silence for a while, and speaking. He has a kind of magic when he talks.    2   The

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Fiction, Translations
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Photography by Nour Annan The first time I broke a bone, I was twenty-five years old. I fractured my right hand while exercising. The base of my pinky was cracked open and required immobilization. Otherwise, as my doctor cold-heartedly put it, "I'd have to perform a surgery where I break it further to have it heal in the right position.” This injury reshaped my relationship with the hands of those around me and changed the way I perceive my own. It made me realize the strength my hands had built up over the years, despite all odds. I remember sitting anxiously in

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Non-Fiction
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Part I: War Without Images The title of Mohammed Soudani’s film War Without Images- Algeria, I Know That You Know carries the unintended irony of being as forgotten and inaccessible as its subject matter is supposedly non-existent, given that the existence of the photographs that the film is about are negated by its title. Listed on none of the major film databases, I was very lucky to stumble upon this film while searching YouTube for documentaries about Algerian history. Given the film’s title, it is also hardly surprising that it was one of the first and only relevant results for my

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Film Review
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في حين غادر إيران زملاء له، رفض هو مغادرتها بعد الثورة الإيرانية مفضّلًا البقاء في وطنه، حيث بيته وحارته وذكرياته. ظلّ في داره القديمة شمال طهران، داره المنزوية في ظل مبانٍ عالية وباردة، صامدة كصاحبها في وجه الهدم. ومن هناك، أنجز عباس كيارستمي، شاعر السينما وفيلسوفها، أجمل أفلامه.  في الرابع من شهر تمّوز، ستمرّ سنواتٌ أربع  على غياب هذا الفنان المعلّم (1940-2016) الذي قدّم تعريفًا جديدًا للسينما، وتلمّس، بلغةٍ بصريةٍ متأملةٍ وحساسة، مستوياتٍ عاليةً من المشاعر الإنسانية، لغة سينمائية تقترب من الواقعية الإيطالية الجديدة وسينما المؤلف الفرنسية، وتجد مصادرها في قلب الواقع اليومي والشعر الفارسي، وفي علاقة الإنسان مع

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Critical Biography, Film Review
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By Taya Osman October’s stealth light leavens the skin then molts into Nuttall Oaks.  No preamble to a scream interrupts the glistening rub of downward wings  except for the hum of poets acquainted with one another. The one made of bronze  cools the day’s fire from their breaths, so that news of faraway places lifts briefly,  and in this afternoon there are no bodies scraped from deformed fans in Kashmir nor children gushing out of cemented pipes in Gaza. For a small wrinkle,  the women of Tahrir caress dragonflies with their fingertips and flood the tank’s tenuous arm with bracelets of jasmine. The dormant fountain in the garden is only an ode to the sea but not shadows  as we toll through a penultimate line proclaiming the time was neither

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Poetry
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Photograph by Sima Qunsol During late July of last year, I went to my regular café to meet a friend visiting from out of town. He was running late, so I ordered my Americano and sat outside to read. It was one of those summer mornings that held so much promise: I woke up early, had a brief but pleasant exchange with my cab driver, and was greeted by the barista like an old friend when I arrived. This was the kind of coffee shop where everybody knew everybody. It was always packed with young freelancers who headed there under

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Non-Fiction
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Photograph by Nour Annan الحياة كالموج البحر، نادرة بين الصفوف تمضي قدمًا * على عواصم العواطف نتيجة الرياح تهمس إلى الماء، قوم، قوم يا عشيقي وروح، روح من قدري، فتمضي قدمًا * بين وحوش الأعماق و سحر الآفاق تمضي باللّجوء بعيداً عن الحدود وتتجول في الوجود وتمضي قدمًا نحو الشاطئ المتلألئ الذي يحاصر كنز الحق والحب * كُلما تقترب بوجه الضغط تشْمُخ، فوق جاذبيّة الصمت والخضوع لِلصفوف * وكُلما تقترب و تنمو و تتجمع طاقة، صرخة، ضجة تفاجئ الدهر وتجمّد الهواء وتتولع كل خلاياها وتُطْلق خيالها مواجهة وجهًا لوجه الشاطئ في عينيه * ومهما انكسرت وانتشرت تمضي قدمًا فكما انت موجة بحر، يا حياتي

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Poetry
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"Untitled" by Bariaa Sanioura History gallops over the margins of your page, what’s a story, but its plural all over the world? Arabic lulls ageless in your ears, but to you what most matters is temporal in this world.  The Sheikh with a gold pen in his pocket, the girl lathering her father’s head with musk,and you—pearling over Whitman’s poems—all have a lover’s quarrel with the world. A riddle of childhood loss soaks the rearview mirror in an Arizona desert,and you drive past the unsaid but ignite nothing immoral in this world.  When you put your head down to

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Poetry
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Introduction In 1967, Palestinian photographers and filmmakers Salafa Jadallah, Mustapha Abu Ali, and Hani Jawhariyah came together in Amman to create the Photography Section in the Fatah Information Office and a year later started a film collective known as the Palestine Film Unit.((Rona Sela, “Seized in Beirut: The Plundered Archives of the Palestinian Cinema Institution and Cultural Arts Section,” Anthropology of the Middle East 12, no. 1 (Summer 2017): 89.)) After the Black September civil war that resulted in the expulsion of the PLO by the King Hussein regime, the Film Unit followed the PLO to Beirut.((Nadia Yaqub, Palestinian Cinema in

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Film Review
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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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