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Home2020 (Page 8)

May 2020

"Untitled" by Nour Mouslim -١- مذ أسرَّ لي برغبته في مرافقتي إلى بيروت، وأنا أُعْمِل التفكير. قلتُ إنَّه يودُّ أن يكون بجانبي للمساعدة بما أنَّه يعرف المدينة. غير أنَّ عودتي لم تكن تتطلَّب بحثًا وتقصِّيًا، فالعناوين التي حصلتُ عليها من الميتم كانت مفصَّلة، وفهمتُ من الموظفين هناك أنَّ الأمر سهل، وأنِّي لستُ الأول الذي أتى يسأل عن أصوله.  في زمن بعيد، أقرأ عنه فيزداد بعدًا، انكشفَت في الإعلام الألماني قضية الأطفال الذين هُرِّبوا من لبنان في الثمانينيَّات، وكانت التعليمات صارمة: تسهيل مساعدة من يسأل عن عائلته. تعاونَت الشرطة آنذاك مع الوزارات والمؤسَّسات المعنية، ورُتِّبَت زيارات لأهالي الأطفال الجدد لنقاش

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Fiction
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قبيل شروق الشمس، أستيقظ عندما يراوغ الخيط الأبيض لكسر سواد سماء اللّيل. أرتدي ملابسي الرياضية ثمّ أتناول تفاحة لأقضمها خلال نزولي من شارع بلس نحو الكورنيش. أبدأ الصّباح بالهرولة بين وفودٍ من الناس أتت لتقف مع بيروت في استقبال شروق شمس يوم جديد. أنطلق من محاذاة "عامود الجامعة" ثم أتّجه شرقًا. الجميل في صباحات البحر تلك، طقوسها. العلاقات الاجتماعية الصاخبة، والكلام والتسامر اللّامنقطع كأنّه منذ الأزل، وصوت الموج. بدايةٌ صاخبة مليئة بالحياة، فلا تنفك تسمع السلامات وتحيّات الصّباح بين روّاد الكورنيش.لا تتوافق هذه الصباحات مع تجربة استقبال الشمس واليوم الجديد في مدن أخرى، فتجربتي مع هذه الصباحات في مدن أوروبا

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Fiction
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my father taught me that if you drive patiently enough you will arrive to where it smells differently       the smell of apartments by that sea rust and everything brought to a standstill by the storm here you can even forget the war rice and tahini strange songs on the radio already the first night I went to him without wanting much except his warmth his belly was round with silence and he spoke in a mix of the old language and the new already too far for anyone to reach him and it was both a home and an adventure                                   my father is stung by a medusa he was

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Poetry
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"Three Children Balancing on a Total Barrel" by Abdul Rahman Katanani Boundless, across boundless, wave-driven miles, white clad steel groaned against current. In bitter fifth month fog, I arrived at a different place, but now, they bid me depart.   Lazy wanderer, empty of speech, the village home not near nor in sight. Nothing but a wood house humped up and cold, and wind moans without meaning. The ferry will dock hard, edge me towards heaven. Once aboard that slow boat home, day won’t dawn again for a thousand years. Day won’t dawn again in a thousand years, and of what use were all my careful lies? Those here weeping, who wave farewell, they'll earn their prerequisites

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Poetry, Translations
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An eleven-year-old boy from Aleppo whose eyes hold only things no longer there – a citadel, a moat, safe rooms of shadow, ‘afterwardness’ in his thousand yard stare – years later, decades even, might turn around to see, through the long tunnel of that gaze, a yard, a pond and pine trees that surround, as in a chaharbagh, four branching pathways. Where do memories hide? the pine trees sing. In language of course, the four pathways reply. What if the words be lost? the pine trees sigh. Lost, the echo comes, lost like me in air. Then sing, the pathways answer, sigh and sing for the echo, for nothing, no one, nowhere. "Beirut Blocks

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Poetry
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"Liquid Series Sculpture" by Mona Aghababaee Sa’id bin Ahmad translated from the Arabic by Nicholas Roberts   Oh, you, whose passion gives me breath. You humiliate me.  You leave me mystified, craving, enraptured.  You pledged your passion was no breeze.  But a soft wind swept away your pledge.  Time passed, but you did not become mine.  You consumed me; you stole my breath.  When you clutched the reins of my heart So I will plant myself in the road and harp of wronging I will appeal to the Sultan of passion to torture you And, in the dark of night, I will cry for a curse to ruin you What is the way to

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Poetry, Translations
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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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