Again, Fanon’s words come to mind: “The town belonging to the colonized people . . . the native town, the Negro village, the medina, the reservation, is a place of ill fame, peopled by men of evil repute. They are born there, it matters little where or how; they die there, it matters not where, nor how.”

[Background image above depicts an Israeli strike on the Islamic University of Gaza on December 2, 2023, killing physics professor … Continue reading "Join the Call to Cancel PEN America at University of Minnesota"

I love you— Force the city to hear it out loud.

But the immense neglect and physical destruction of these places along the societal fabric puts doubt in whether the new free Syria, with its new and varied diasporic community, can reclaim a healthy and thriving society with a collectivist living philosophy. It is a challenge that requires utopian imagings as well as forms of expression and commemoration of the sacrifices and displacement faced by the people.

In this debut poetry publication by Syrian-American mathematician, musician, and writer M. Hakim, I am reminded of the ways grief … Continue reading "“the tart air from Damascus”—New Syrian Poetry"

Compiled and edited by Rania Jawad, translated by Malaka Shwaikh On March 2, 2024 Nima Hasan wrote: I believe there … Continue reading "“I Bequeath Life to You, for We Die without Life Knowing Us”—Nima Hasan Writing from the Ends of the Homeland"

Mizna is growing our board! We’re seeking passionate and committed individuals to join our board of directors. Board members enter … Continue reading "Open Call: Join Our Board"

trans.  Huda Fakhreddine In anticipation of Huda Fakhreddine’s forthcoming translation of Samer Abu Hawwash’s Ruins and Other Poems, Mizna presents … Continue reading "A Box of Dates on the Kitchen Table"

Today, Mizna is honoring the launch of beloved contributor and Palestinian performance artist Fargo Tbakhi’s debut poetry collection TERROR COUNTER. … Continue reading "TERROR COUNTER—Excerpts"

you curl against me like a burning hair as airstrikes pock the hillside, bare earth red as afterbirth. upturned. we knob until we find fairuz on the radio.