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November 2024

What's On The Other Side? | By Heather Asaad Montresor-Des-Roches is a tiny French village of 118 inhabitants where every birth, death, and marriage is announced with great solemnity in the monthly village circular. "Outsiders" are greeted politely but kept at a safe distance until the new faces have been seen frequently enough to be considered familiar.  My wife, children, and I were unquestionably "outsiders,"  living on the edge of the village. Our nearest neighbor was Sylvain. A field lay between our two houses - creating a natural barrier - or as the villagers would say, "a civilized

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Fiction
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Walid, who lost vision in one of his eyes on the day of the Port of Beirut explosion on August 4, 2020, asked for his name to be changed, and to limit the details that could identify him, his family, or any factor linked to his story. Every name in this story has been changed to respect his wishes. But he also asked not to figure in the pictures. How could I portray him and his visual experience without describing him or photographing him? I simply asked him, What is it like to lose half your sight?  "It's not pitch black,

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Visual Essay
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Cultural Map | By Renoz اليوم لن تقودني الطريق إلى مدرسة. كان الشهر قد مضى مثل شعرة عالقة في حنجرة، تتأرجح بِحيرة لا تتعثّر سوى بجدران. هذه فكرتي عن الحنجرة، أنبوب فارغ له جدران يستوعب الهواء والأنفاس المتبادلة وكل ما ينفثه الكوكب أو ما تبعثه السماء، تصدر منه الأصوات. استيعابي لما يجري من حولي مهزوز. لست مقتنعة بعبور هذه اللحظة مثلاً. احترقت القناعة عندي كما تحترق الشعرات الصغيرة على سطوح أصابع اليد عند مرورها السريع فوق لهب ما. لا أجد سكينة. رأسي كما أردّد أحياناً، طنجرة فوشار. لا سلالم احتياط عندي بل مراجيح ومركَبات دوارة. ما هي

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قصة
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As I Walked Along The Beach Series | By Noir Barakat after Terrance Hayes   Sometimes I feel like a widowon the floor beside the body, or a crow below a tree that's been chopped down to revive the view-my own body turned granite, turned black river,mourning curdling the skin like wind were fact.   Sometimes I feel like a martyr who lost her life trying to free a litter of kittens born to an activist in prison. The kittens feed on the marrow of night-the activist hides themin her hair; between her teeth.   Sometimes I feel like a February heat-wave.A silver shadow

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Poetry
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Part of the series Requiem | By Nooshin Hakim وجدت نفسي في مأزق عندما التقيت بأستاذ العربية الذي درّسني أيام المعهد بعد سنوات في العاصمة. كان علينا أن نملأ ساعة من الزمن بالأحاديث في انتظار توقف المطر الذي حاصرنا في إحدى المقاهي. مرّ عليّ شريط من الذكريات الثقيلة عن ساعات الدرس المسائية التي كانت تمتصّنا حتى الشحوب، وعن مقعدي المجاور للنافذة المطلة على شجر اللوز من منزل مدير المعهد. أعادني صوته إلى شرحه الرتيب لمقامات الهمذاني ودروس العروض المضجرة وأشعاره التي يلقيها علينا قبل نهاية الحصة ليستمتع بتملّقنا له. علمنا فيما بعد أنه كان يقصد التودّد إلى

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قصة
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As I Walked Along The Beach Series | By Noir Barakat On the morning my womb sheds, I am told by the earth to rest- to remain enclosed in the circle of pulsating inactivity, like a fetus.  The yoni awareness mentor describes, the turmoil of the inner winter- the way the body uses and expels its nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium, like a flower.  Louder than the universal dripping mutation, the beckoning alarm, the means of production- tend to the product of your ill-chosen craft regularly, reliably like a factory.  Your glory is not fading! It is packaged in

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Poetry
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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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