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September 2020

Photograph by Rima Rantisi i. Cinnabar billowsshrouded in vaporous whiteBibendum’s sinister twin hurlshis wave of shock rockingbuildings in seismic swaystrange wind portendinghiroshimic concussion turninghouses to gaping vestigescrystalline rain of glass pavingstreets in savage mosaicthe blast roaring through bodies andwoman becomes motherwrestinginnocence from bedlam    ii. It is always thosewith nothing more to losewho time and again lose morea truthon tender skin hard-brandedimpossible to ignorethatnot a germ of mercy informsthe calculus of thosewhose jaded eye is fixedupon opportunitiesinterred beneath the slag    iii. Blear-eye starehunker down orcut and runhowlreject bloodand promise itsleep in fragmentsdissociatescreamgo silent andfuck itgrab a broomsweep the wreckageshard-by-shred-by-ash-by-scrapthen demandis this how the world is to

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Poetry
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Photograph by Nour Annan It was an ideal weekend in early September in New York City when I found myself, having recently returned from Beirut, eager to tag along to Robert Moses beach on Long Island with a friend and a group of people I had never met. The Long Island shore was littered with dispersed pockets of sunbathers, lying ten feet apart. It was a languid day, moving at its own pace. I barely plopped my mesh bag onto the sand before ripping off my clothes and rushing towards the ocean, diving headfirst into an incoming wave. Almost immediately, the

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Non-Fiction
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Global temperature change from 1850-2018 Source: //showyourstripes.infoData used from: Berkeley Earth, NOAA, UK Met Office, MeteoSwiss, DWD, SMHI, UoR, Meteo France & ZAMG On the 14th of October 2019, I walked to the furthest corner in the university cafeteria for my lunch break and as soon as I sat in my seat — overlooking the busy crossroad of 5th Avenue and 14th St — I broke into tears. Over the past 24 hours, I had been closely following whatever loose threads of footage and information I could access online about the fires (more than 120 within two days) that had been

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Non-Fiction
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#1 نداءان   حين عرفتُك، كانَ الله ولدًا صغيرًا يصطادُ ذئابًا ترعى الزّجاج عن ركبتيّ ويعلّمها العواءْ والكونُ مشطَ زجاجٍ كانْ منغرسَ الأسنانْ في جمجمةِ عجوزٍ خرساءْ كسّرهُ صوتُ غناء ذئابٍ ابتلعت حناجرَها الوديانْ فتشظّى، حين عرفتُك، فوق ركبتيّ قلتُ: تعالَ إليّ وكان الوقتُ قِرطَ زمرّدٍ في شحمة أذنٍ صمّاء يَقطُرُ فيها خيطُ بكاء والآن يتخثّر اسمُكَ في فمي قطرةَ دمٍ صفراء.

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arabic, Poetry
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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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On August 8, 2020, pellet shotguns were used on protestors at close distance and critical body zones. The Health Ministry, following the arrival of injured protesters to the hospital, attempted to put a stop to financial coverage of treatments that is usually granted to injuries caused by protest suppression. This was only reversed after the ministry faced pressure by the Lebanese Order of Physicians and hospital administrations. The following describes the inhumane oppression practiced by the internal security forces along with the armed infiltrators in civilian wear. The inhumanity and extent of injury the medical community witnessed is beyond words. This is

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Photo Essay
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Photograph by the author One of the biggest conundrums of the Beirut explosion is probably the burden of knowing how to live in its aftermath. What words are there to describe what has happened? What meaning is there to give? What do we do next? As we were scrambling to make sense of living an economic and financial collapse, as we were trying to figure out what it means to live through a pandemic, on August 4, all the webs of meaning we had spun suddenly melted into air.  Was it fireworks? Was it an Israeli air missile? Was it 2,750 tonnes

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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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