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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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As I Walked Along The Beach Series | By Noir Barakat "How did your father's work ethic impact yours?" This prompt came out of the Therapy Game, a card game from The School of Life.  It opened a stream of thought that I had never considered. How did my father's work ethic impact mine? I can't tell. I mainly remember my father as unemployed. How can I comment on his work ethic when I can't even remember him working? My father was sick, idle, and shrinking in his final years, the years I remember him most. He collapsed and

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Essay, Non-Fiction
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As I Walked Along The Beach Series | By Noir Barakat It's only a faint whisper of a breeze, sneaking its way in through the slightly ajar window, but it's enough to start pulling loose the edges of a worn out old poster. Somehow, the distressed age and nature of the poster, the slightly washed-off color, make the stereotypical Hawaiian scenery even more beautiful. Just as the poster is about to come loose, a young boy runs into the room and shuts the window. He reattaches the poster with great care and looks at it for a

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Fiction, Short Story
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Untitled | From the Series MMXX | By Paul Gorra حين ظهر رقمي على الشاشة الرئيسية في البهو الخاص لمركز التوظيف والدعم الوظيفي، خطوت إلى الباب الذي يحمل رقم 7. حاولت أن أتفاءل خيراً بالرقم. كانت الآنسة أولاف ترتدي جيليهاً خاصاً بِعيد الميلاد والذي يقع على بُعد أسبوعين من اليوم، مذكّراً بولادة مخلّص العالم ومعلناً استكمالي السنة الأولى في الحصول على دعم مالي من الدولة بعدما تمّ قبول طلبي في الحماية الإنسانية. كان من المفروض أن أبدأ تعلّم اللغة والبحث عن عمل، لكن إيجاد منزل مستقل في المدينة قد أخذ مني أكثر من نصف السنة تقريباً، وبقي

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قصة
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As I Walked Along The Beach Series | By Noir Barakat You ask me what life is like here now and I don't know what to tell you except that       today I taught my son how to make za'atar toast, not as some sweet                      passing down of the sacred - I'm just sick of doing it for him. I wonder when       I can stop doing all of this holding. Crates of soil and tenderness  and there is only before and after. On the metro, I sat elbow-to-elbow with new       wanting. She

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Poetry
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As I Walked Along The Beach Series | By Noir Barakat As a child of four, I found myself burdened by the adult problems of life and death, right and wrong. I, as a dreamer, living on the bare subsistence provided by a UN blue ration card, in a crowded room, on a side street in Soor, stand as a witness to Zionist inhumanity. I charge the world for its acquiescence in my destruction. - Leila Khaled before becoming the first known woman to hijack an airplane 1969     I hear the rhythmic pin-drop of muffled revenge from tunnels being dug twenty

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Fiction, Novel Excerpt
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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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