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HomePosts Tagged "posts-issue9" (Page 2)

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"Pool" by Hala Auji When the live decarceration teach-in freezes as RuthWilson Gilmore repeated the words, Organize, Organize,Organize, the chat erupted in solidarity: youtube is on to us; this is the message we were not supposed to hear. And just like that,across bladed borders and unnamed sorrows, we were allholding our breath in the same room, watching the intimacy  of collapse from a safe distance. By now, we must be aficionadosat wafting the smolder of news-filtered grief. By grief,I mean responsibility. By that, I mean I take after my mother,  who confuses compassion for a theory of return.

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Poetry
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"Inside" by Samia Soubra I was sitting with my older brother in the living room of my Uncle's apartment when a man lumbered through the hallway. People and candles and incense were lingering all day, pungent and conspicuous. I knew very few of the people, but I recognized the hard, bloated face in the hallway as a friend of my Uncle's, Professor Joseph. He was once a lecturer in law at the American University of Beirut. Supposedly an eloquent speaker with a powerful grasp of language, the Professor was disgraced after a recently widowed colleague made comments implying

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Fiction
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"Untitled (1)" by Maya Darwish When it comes to health and illness, I cannot seem to separate the two categories. They are not a strict dichotomy. There is a grey area in which they meet, almost invisible to the naked eye. But if you really squint, if you really try to look for it, you can see its outline in everyday occurrences.  We are always both healthy and ill, always on the verge of getting sick, always on the threshold. Even a simple cold can have your voice changing, your nose turning red, and your desire to leave

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Non-Fiction
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"Impossible Equilibrium" by Lina Hassoun Another lockdown in the news. Not like the one in Egypt; that was a revolution. Back in those days, we would gather and watch Mubarak's final speeches, surrounded by thousands of people in Tahrir Square. We would spend the day protesting and then nest together during lockdown hours. Sometimes we organized lockdown parties. We stuck together, sharing our homes and beds with friends and strangers. Now a pandemic is in the headlines. Alone in my flat in Berlin, I watch a livestream of Merkel's speech announcing the lockdown.  When Mubarak addressed the nation, he

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Non-Fiction
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"Drilling" by Samia Soubra بيدرو مارتي مونيوز | ترجمتها من الاسبانية زينة الحلبي لم يدَعْ باولوف الكلاب تنام. عذّبها طوالَ أسابيع، فلم يسمح لها إلا بقليل من النوم المتقطّع، بلا انتظام. اكتشف بعدها أنّها وصلت إلى حالةٍ قصوى من التعب، فباتت كائناتٍ يقظة ولكن على حافّة النوم. أصبحت تلك الحيوانات شديدة الهشاشة، فصار بإمكانه السيطرة حتّى على تصرّفاتها العفويّة. فبعد بقائها وقتًا طويلًا بلا نوم، فقدت أكثر كلابه ذكاءً عزيمتها وأصبحت خاضعةً طيّعةً. لا أعرف المزيد عن باولوف. لكنّي أعرف ما ذكرتُه لأنه يساعدني على شرح كيف تحوّلتُ إلى كيسٍ من الخراء. أعاني من الأرق. لا أعرف النوم إلا

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ترجمة, نثر
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"Give Me Your Guts" by Omid Shekari I was sitting with my family when the floor of our apartment rocked back and forth. The emergency physician in me had drilled this moment time and again since moving from Baltimore to Beirut eleven years ago, to a city re-built on the ruins of many seismic tragedies. Before I could direct my daughters away from the windows, a loud rumble followed by a deafening explosion blasted through the glass panes, sparing only the one behind us.  For a moment, we all stood frozen there in our living room, absorbing the damage

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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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