الاستقرار بالنسبة للبعيدين عن أوطانهم وأوطانهم بعيدة عنهم الأمنية المرجوة والدائمة.
دائمًا ما يشعرون أنهم معلَّقين بحبلٍ يربط أعناقهم، فلا هم الذين استطاعوا أن يصلوا للقمة ليستطيعوا فكّ وثاقهم ولا هم الذين تمكنوا من قطع ما يعلّقهم ليسقطوا في القاع.
إن الحياة بالنسبة لأصحاب الرقاب المعلقة قصيرة المدى، كل أحلامهم ومخططاتهم تنتهي في اليوم أو الشهر التالي، إنهم لا يعرفون معنى أن تحلم بأمورٍ لسنة أخرى خشية أن تُقطع حبالهم فجأة فتُقطع آمالهم معها.
لا يريد أصحاب الرقاب المعلقّة أن تُقطع آمالهم لذا تراهم يتجنبون دائمًا عقد آمالٍ لا يكفي مداها عمر الحبل الملتف حول رقابهم. لا يريدون أن تُقطع آمالهم حفاظًا على قلوبهم.
كل ما يملكونه هو قلوبهم القادرة على تحمل هذا الاضطراب ومن أشكال الاضطراب التي يعيشها أصحاب الرقاب المعلقة أنهم لا يستطيعون بناء بيتٍ تُغرسُ أعمدته في باطن الأرض، لا يستطيعون بناء بيتٍ مستقر. إن الحياة التي يعيشونها والذكريات التي يصنعونها إنما يصنعونها على بيتٍ يطفو على هذه الأرض، وكل جسمٍ يطفو لا يعرف الاستقرار أبدًا. الزجاجة الفارغة التي تراها تطفو أمامك في البحر لن تراها غدًا، لا تستطيع التأكد من رؤية ما يطفو لليوم التالي لأنه غير مستقر.
كل ما يطفو غير مستقر.
كل ما يطفو يتمنى أن يستقر.
______
TEXT:
AZARI ABDULKARIM
SAUDI ARABIA
OSMOSIS OF WORLDS
I chased the sun back in time, riding a planetary wind I thought I would never catch. What found me there was the perfume of an otherworldly rose garden, and a language I instinctively understood; I had regressed. Then dust. When my ummi saw bibi squat on the floor, she screamed and screamed and screamed. 30 years later or 30 years past, the muscles had hardened, the cancer had gathered and the wrinkles bunched together like so many sand dunes, but as I leaned in closer, I swooned with the waft of soft maternal powder.
They took me to Chah-e Anjir, where I was relieved at the sight of so much green. We climbed the roofs and laughed as we devoured juicy anar from the orchard, fingers stained crimson. The local kin stole an infant beza from the neighbours and handed it to me; I lay in a dust mote sun for the rest of the day cooing with my baby.
They took me to Q’ali Bost where I found a quarry of stars, still burning faintly from their distant homes. A grand arch embraced me and we took a spiral staircase around a well, down, down, down, into the dark beginning vestiges of its creation. Obscure spirits and sombre demurs around every corner, I felt ensconced within an ancient crib.
These journeys, lost and found, populated by resilient souls clad in blue, or true hungry lost spirits. I felt all of their translucent pigeon eyes on me, and finally, they chased us out, leaning forward against the ebb of time, gasping as we settled into our painfully nostalgic escape. Lashkar-gah nearly diffused into me whole, consuming with sweetness and despair.
______
PHOTO ESSAY:
MARYAM NOORZAI
CANADA
THE CALL OF YEMEN
My roots propelled me into an upward spiral of obsession
I see yellow
and I engulf myself into its rays whole lovingly
I smell it
and it pretends to exude like jasmine but fluorescent and flamboyant
I do not know
But it calls out for me..
(Every acacia I’ve ever felt)
***
I saw mountains crippled by gigantic footsteps
And i murmured
Glorious! That could have been my ancestor
Embedding love unto earth
(Call of the Socotra)
***
(Once a miracle in the summer)
I thanked the One for the blessed rain in the summer
We rarely witness these miracles
I prayed to give thanks because my heart woke with joy and wonder
My heart woke with purpose
I sped to nature to pray
Ya salam ya salam
And amidst my worship
The One reassured me
With a drip of One’s blessing on my wrist
That Hu is there
***
(war...new moon in aries march 2018)
so when will this madness end?
______
TEXT:
NOUF ALJAHDAMI
UNITED ARAB EMIRATES
ART:
NOHA
YEMEN/
UNITED KINGDOM
TRACING
عندما يترك الشخص بيته ومكانه في الحياة، ليس بالضرورة أن يفنى ولكن احيانا تزال روحه تحيط بما حولها من اشخاص مقربين أو مكان معيشته ولكن مع الوقت تطرأ تغيرات منها الطفيف و منها الجذري، منها التخلص من اشيائه ومتعلقاته ومنها ما لا نستطيع أن نمحيه وهي أثر وجوده في الحياة خلال السنوات
When a person leaves their home and their place in life, they do not necessarily perish but sometimes their souls remain around their beloved ones or their homes. But on the course of time, changes occur, slight or radical. Of them is throwing away their stuff and belongings but some of them we can’t erase which is the trace they left on the course of the lifetime.
______
PHOTOGRAPHY:
DANIA HANY
EGYPT
HOME
I remember the flowers on
your dress the night you
asked me to hold on.
I still dream of it.
I dream of the chunks of henna
pressing onto my palms.
I dream of your gentle hands,
adorned with the crevices of time.
I dream of my scooter
and the ant that bit my finger afterwards.
I dream of palm trees and lollipops.
I cannot withstand any more pain,
for my longing has become unbearable.
But I have gotten so used to home
calling for my name,
that I became too old to call back.
______
POEM:
JOOD ALTHUKAIR
SAUDI ARABIA
PHOTOGRAPHY:
SHAIMA SALEH
YEMEN
ANALEMMA
______
ART:
AHMED HAMAD
SUDAN/
UNITED ARAB EMIRATES
A DOVE SINGS
Hum Once More
If pearls are said to be the tears of god,
then she has worn mine on her neck.
If you are the diamonds to which I am Saturn,
then I have worn your ring on my finger.
If fire is said to be weaved onto skin of honey,
then he has worn my burning heart on his sleeve.
“Hum for brother dear,” she sings, “hum for me.”
“Hum for love, brother dear,” she sings, “hum for peace.”
In The Arms of Ruins*
I wait for the luster the maidens vowed I would see,
the strength the men of war vowed I would feel,
the sword of yellows the elders vowed I would hold,
the hills of asters the young vowed I would run through,
the roots the ground vowed would bind my limbs,
the fortunes the teller vowed would give my way,
the wounds the chaired boy vowed would heal,
the blood gushing the robed figure's hands vowed would cease.
As my soul withers away.
*An ode to no one.
A Love Letter to Venus
A tale within a tale within a tale,
of rosewood tips upon golden velveteen,
and soft draws of breath,
emanating floral harps,
that sing into the hearts of what remains.
A tale within a tale within a tale,
carved by the daughter of Jupiter,
out of grief, loss, and honeycombs,
to encrust her hands with gold,
and hold it against the blaze.
A tale within a tale within a tale,
a shell ferried ashore,
birthing a seraph of crystalline eyes, velveteen skin,
and lips armed with a bow of sugarcane,
shelling floral arrowheads into the hearts of comers.
A tale within a tale within a tale hold the tips of his brush.
______
POETRY:
RAYANA ALBUSAILI
SAUDI ARABIA
PHOTOGRAPHY:
LAMA AL JALLAL
KUWAIT
WHEN ASKED TO WRITE A RECIPE
Go to the bakery, tell them I sent you. Buy bread that smells of tetas print shirts and jidos tar black coffee. The day sits on the table like a welcome mat, praising radishes under clear plastic—an untouched treasure far from the colonizers iron-spread.
Check the date, flex the bread, if it bends like the middle of the week, tell the man behind the counter with my great-uncles eyes you’ll cradle it in your arms as your mother formed you in mercy.
Carry a spoon in your pocket. Make sure its backgammon board smooth; the crashing of dice audible with hollers of “sish bish” when you peek in your pocket.
Take your time coming over. Roam the broken pavement littered with sunflower seeds and orange heads. Say salaams, marhaba, ce va, people on the porches remember the old ways and the older women won’t mind if you stopped to pick grape-leaves off their vine-lined fence.
Don’t knock on the door when you arrive; walk in and acknowledge that we're one, shout “ya allah” as you enter so no one mistakes you as an occupier. You’ll know it by the mint lining the flowerbeds, my grandfathers too many tomatoes, and Abu-Ali washing his Cadillac. The true sliver hand hanging sleek above the door; its blue eye blinking reminding you to mind your got-dammed business. Take off your shoes, Harvard studies agree.
I didn't ask you to get Labne because Vicktors was 2 for 5 last week and hoarding isn't a thing when its (middle-eastern), southwest asian spread. At the oak table, you ask who’s Viktor and hand me the spoon. I say he's not white like I imagined when I was younger but kind of like me, in-between definitions, belonging somewhere past angry red and green lines.
I guide the spread in circles presupposed along the bread. I use to dream I tell you, of garbage floating helplessly in the sea and all the browner smiles, folding like the bark of crisp cedar trees winking in the day.
I roll the sandwich and then then another. We start to nibble and sit a while. The kettle wails and I confess a secret I swore to the grave; I've only gone back home once.
______
TEXT:
YASMINE BADAOUI
LEBANON/UNITED STATES
THE BIRTHMARK HOVERING OVER MY UPPER LIP HAS A STORY
1.
There was and was not home, on the first beat of my heart, he brought the cherry core from across the sea and up the Smokey mountains. He dropped it in the Oakman backyard where it didn't care to grow.
2.
There was and was not home, an old banjo no longer collected dust under the floorboards. The national anthem filled the chasm of the second beat, perfectly in tune. The moon followed me down the shawarma streets, past the hajji's with too many bags purses opened offering my hearts desire, all to make sure I got home safe.
3.
There was and was not home, a dabkeh line of one. My misfit friends and I slip condoms over windshield wipers. The mosque has more mercedes than pistachio shells. The shot of a3lkey warms my bones to the marrow while the coals burn my nose-hairs. In the third beat, loneliness rides the waves of the smoke. I sit a caterpillar in mesmerising wonderland.
4.
There was and was not home, among dandelions and weeds. Mountain odes of stolen girls for each bracelet of gold on the matriarchs neck. But behind the smokestacks I spy with Fatima’s little blue eye; Djinni brides in mammoth butterfly gowns running away to outer-space. Their hearts beating wilder than my own fourth beat.
5.
There was and was not home, on the fifth I cry at the Bakery over fresh bread. Home is where mama is, but mama's home won't see me sunkissed in the summer. Maps I drew in infancy pointed to the green carpets of this city. Home was always the four walls of the city? With its many minarets fanning the moon even in its sleep. By the moon cherry tree would not grow, but I blossomed in the dark somewhere near its place.
______
TEXT:
YASMINE BADAOUI
LEBANON/UNITED STATES
MAMA SINGS THE QURAN INTO MY HAIR IN AMMAN, JORDAN
her w ana a falling
of rain bi april abdoun
ana a rotting of songs
a quiet touch of her
hands bein my sometimes ahmar
wa always zay her own hair
mama habeebti her breath
moments of chamomile wa nicotine
cascading into the base of my neck
{ya binti ihna
a whole people of words
written bi the palm of god
kolna a language blend
of cardamom flavoured tea
leaves left to soak
over night}
______
TEXT:
ZEIN SA’DEDIN
UNITED KINGDOM
ART:
RAMAH ALHUSSEINI
BAHRAIN