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 acts on language in the most intimate details. In our exchange for editing the poem, Hakim described the ways punctuation is governed not by traditional grammar, but by associations of grief: sentences pairing with each other like ghosts to former inhabitations, spectral residues of once-restricted sites like Qasioun, the gifting of an oud, and the speculative...
Compiled and edited by Rania Jawad, translated by Malaka Shwaikh On March 2, 2024 Nima Hasan wrote: I believe there is some secret in the elements of Gaza that makes us cling to a life that was never a life. I have always tried to keep an eye on death, making plans to distract it, to make it wait, so that it would get bored and leave what remains of me, my remains. We are all remains here. It is only the angle from which the photograph is taken that determines whether we are...
trans. Huda Fakhreddine In anticipation of Huda Fakhreddine’s forthcoming translation of Samer Abu Hawwash’s Ruins and Other Poems, Mizna presents this stunning new poem on the ways Zionist settler colonialism infiltrates Palestinian life even through mundane, ordinary objects. As with other works like “from the river to the sea,” Abu Hawwash’s poem haunts, and yet returns us impossibly to the land, in all the details. —George Abraham, Editor-at-Large
Today, Mizna is honoring the launch of beloved contributor and Palestinian performance artist Fargo Tbakhi’s debut poetry collection TERROR COUNTER. This ambitious, experimental collection is, at once, a battle cry, a love letter, a reminder that we will die and that we are not dead. Lena Khalaf Tuffaha writes: “Through a variety of invented forms and stirring unravelings, these poems tunnel, excavate, eulogize, exclaim, and most elegantly imagine where we might go once we reject...
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.
the bouncer of my road house heart
my wild Johnny
the first man i thought to love
I don’t know mainly how
to save myself from my
words: I would want them
all, alive and well, or at
once, all at once, burning.
While omniscience is often equated with divinity, to forget is to be human—it is to die a human death. Remembering, then, works to resist the natural course of decay and extinction. We excavate our mind like we fumble in a wild garden; we scratch underneath family stories, tales, poems, books. To remember is to take an unknown journey and sometimes we come across special objects.
Protect the head, where the algae grow,
and the sun screams from the summit.
The head that has stared for centuries
into the sea as it closed its eyelids,
and never blinked.
We are flesh measured in kilograms,
my Palestinian colleague says in desperation
But you are a thinker not a doer
So you do nothing
IF THERE IS AN UPPER LIMIT TO THE HUMAN CAPACITY TO COMPUTE MASS ATROCITY THEN THERE MUST BE A HARD LIMIT ON LETHAL TECHNOLOGIES BECAUSE THE IMPLICATION IS THAT AS VIOLENCE ESCALATES IT ALSO BECOMES INCREASINGLY INCOMPREHENSIBLE
We are a part of history, and history—as it is well known—is a condition and an action in the past. Except us: we are a past continuous and neverending. We address you all from it presently, so that it does not become your future.