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posts-issue11 Tag

It may seem obvious that I write an editorial note about editorial labor in an issue on labor. That's fine. But I'm going to do more than that - so that I don't bore you (I don't mind this kind of labor). I am not going to focus on issue 11 in this note. You can do that work. In other words, no interpreting for you, fitting each piece into lyrical one-sentence summary-analyses (ie. "Emerging writer, Mohamad Tarhini, writes a lilting lyric essay linking the death of his grandfather, a tobacco farmer, to the seasons of tobacco farming."), no framing

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Editorial Note
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يتناول العدد الحادي عشر من مجلة فَمْ ثيمة العمل والركود: كيف يتواجه المفهومان وكيف يتناقضان ويتكاملان؟ كيف نتخيّل العمل في عالم شهد مؤخّراً تحوّلاً جذرياً في مفهوم العمل وشروط ممارسته؟ وعلى المقلب الآخر، كيف ننظر إلى الركود، إلى الوقت المستقطع من العمل، وتشعّباته كالسكون والتراخي والخمول والكسل؟ تضيف مساهمات هذا العدد على هذه الأسئلة، فتتطرّق إلى السؤال الأزلي حول العمالة المهاجرة وقضية الاغتراب. «وحدها الأنفاق التي نحفرها توصلنا إلى حيث نريد / أو تعيدنا إلى بطن الأرض»، يكتب صلاح باديس في قصائده عن العمال المهاجرين إلى أوروبا، والدوامة السيزيفية التي تبدأ من لحظة اغترابهم عن بلادهم وتستمّر مع انسلاخهم عن عملهم

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كلمة المحرّرة
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CHAIR TALKS | By Shams Safieddine And once again I wish it were the past and I were joking with Marie-Geneviève in her cluttered car…she, still alive, cat yowling on the back seat, with our dest- ination, Pénestin, the sea, at last close by. She'd stretch canvas at night, engrave, draw surreal seas. A double vitrail she gave me's over my bed, at home…Where's home? A list follows, places that were, or felt as if… Manhattan, north London, Hamra, le Marais… If I could go somewhere, where would I go? Up to the 6th floor of the rue Barrault? The T-marbuta garden? Or just stay here, fan whirring overhead, one more hot day? Fan whirring

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Poetry
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LEGS ON CHAIR | By Shams Safieddine GRACE /ɡreɪs/ [verb] formations without power; body as lineation; to fail as a poet in times of collapse.   FAILURE /ˈfeɪljə/ [adjective] to press our thumbs into the abyss; promises that wear quicker than a swaddle cloth as in: failure turns red on our skin, rashes callous when we surrender.   1. our chests were protest signs. we carried them to the riots & the greengrocer; undressed the blouse off our placards for the doctor & pressed bedsheets into our slogans at night. 2. organising is a mourning song. spreadsheets > strangers > strategy > new names spoken softly >> dreaming of the reeds

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Poetry
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Fountain 12 | By Renoz ازدادت كوابيس البدين فترة الامتحانات. روى على جدته حلمين. أوقفته قبل أن يشرع في سرد الثالث. حذّرته من أن يحكي كوابيسه لأحد. إن فعل تحقّقت. أتت بقطعة ورقية وقصّتها على هيئة عروسة بوجه وذراعين وساقين. خزَّقت العيون ثم أحرقتها. غطّت جبهته بالرماد. تلت عليه بعدها آيات مختارة من الذكر الحكيم. نهته عن التحرك. تركته جالساً على حرف سريره ثم خرجت وقد أغلقت باب غرفته من ورائها. شعر برغبة في حك فخذه لكنه التزم بتعليمات الجدة. دخلت عليه بعدها بدقائق إذ انتشر أذان الفجر. أمرته بالوضوء ليؤمّها في الصلاة. سمَّى. غسل كفيه. تمضمض. جذب الماء من منخاره الأيمن وأخرجه

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قصة
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TIME TO REST? | By Shams Safieddine "The most anti-capitalist protest is to care for another and to care for yourself. To take on the historically feminised and therefore invisible practice of nursing, nurturing, caring. To take seriously each other's vulnerability and fragility and precarity, and to support it, honour it, empower it. To protect each other, to enact and practice community. A radical kinship, an interdependent sociality, a politics of care."- Johanna Hedva(( Johanna Hedva, "Sick Woman Theory," Mask Magazine (2016).))     In around 1080, a monk named Goscelin wrote to a woman named Eve. She had started a new life without

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Non-Fiction
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UNTITLED | By Shams Safieddine The day before Dad died, he asked me for a favor. He was sitting up in his bed at the assisted living facility in Aubervilliers, a northern suburb of Paris. His olive green eyes looked gently in my direction. His skin had paled and his once round cheeks now showed the sharpness of his cheekbones.  In an adjacent Parisian suburb, there's an indoor skydiving facility. The website shows people in skintight leotards inside a kind of tube. A blast of air comes out of the ground and pushes them upward. The people in the video smile as

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Non-Fiction
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TIME TO REST? | By Shams Safieddine SPRING Jeddo secures the plow into the spacious void left by his cow and donkey. A crisp clack shakes off the nightly dew and readies the soil for work. The machine takes a delicate detour as its few thorny claws impale the welcoming earth. Then, Jeddo shouts my name while I attempt to sleep in the darkness of a warm dawn, wishing the dirt had been a mattress and the stone a comfortable pillow. His beastly contour moves across the field, escaping the night and urging me on. I am barely nine and thus deserving of

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Fiction
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UNTITLED | By Shams Safieddine For my student James   The sky darkens as I sit with him at Tripler, the pink hospital on Red Hill- old man, both legs gone above the knee, not long here for us. The sky outside his window soon turns a fiery indigo as the sun moves west toward the sea, while his books are stacked in the filtered light on his bedside table- Pound, Jeffers, Gibran, the Bible. The last I saw him a decade ago, not long after I lost my mother thousands of miles away from our island in the Pacific. Even then when he entered my classroom, he was an old man, trimmed, white beard, loud laugh

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Poetry
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Fountain 11 | By Renoz كل يوم أستيقظ وأظلّ في السرير لأكثر من ساعة. أفكّر: "يوم آخر" أو "الكابوس يبدأ ثانية" أو أنه اليوم ذاته يقتل نفسه ويتناسخ. أتساءل: "إنها القيامة إذاً؟ الديستوبيا؟ نهاية العالم؟ يوم الحساب؟ كيف سيتمّ جرد كل هذا؟ التراكم اللانهائي من الخطايا؟ الجسور والمباني؟ هل ستتحرّر اليابسة أخيراً من بعضها البعض؟ تعوم على ظهرها في المحيط دون جسور تشدّها إلى وتد العالم؟" أمسك بحبل أفكاري قبل أن يفلت مني على الآخر. أسحبه لأنهض وأضع رجلي في الواقع. أحاول ممارسة الرياضة، أبدأ بتمرينات الإحماء، أدور بخصري في الاتجاهين ثم بظهري. مثل كثير من النساء لم أتعلّم الرقص، لأني أيضاً لم

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شعر
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