Fiction from “Free Fall”: I fled the city as a murderer whose crime had just been uncovered

View from the Burj Khalifa, world’s highest skyscraper, Dubai.

15 JANUARY 2022 • By Abeer Esber, Nouha Homad
Free Fall the novel is about the dispute of a Christian family over a 250-year-old Damascene house in the 5000-year-old Damascus. It opens with Yasmina returning home from the clinic with her father who has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, going through the streets of a city that has become frenzied with the war. In keeping with the madness, Yasmina has to kill someone. She therefore kills her father, or thinks she has. She, then relates her story, in a feverish stream-of-consciousness. After moving around from Dubai, to Beirut, to Montreal, Yasmina returns to Damascus to die on the same stone steps where she watched her father fall. The selections below are taken from the beginning and the middle of the novel. —Nouha Homa, translator.

 

Abeer Esber

translated from the Arabic by Nouha Homa

 

In the autumn of 2012, I fled the city as a murderer whose crime had just been uncovered. But Damascus did not wait for me to leave the city with grace: everything in it seemed to turn on me. The nights shrank, shrivelled like an amateurishly dyed cotton shirt; the dreary autumn day became as cold as a frosted dawn; the evening winds that tarred the pavements with dust and loneliness, forced people into their homes and left a darkness that foretold worse to come — an alarming darkness pierced by the flash and thunder of gunfire from near-by shelling.

Nevertheless, physical fear was not the only thing that drove me out of the city, which had lost all meaning and became a soulless public property. Even the soldiers were afraid in their own way, and, on sleepy days, instead of staying alert, they drank maté to relieve the tedium at their cement checkpoints, holding bags of popcorn or eating ice cream. As night approached, they seemed to remember where they were and asked you politely and softly to turn off your car lights for fear of snipers. We were afraid in a way that provoked us: we had to prove our pluck. Thus, we walked along Al-Hamidiyeh market streets, with friends, and took pictures at night, with unnecessary rashness, and, in a rare show of courage, we returned from the journalists’ club replete with non-alcoholic beer at eleven o’clock, pleased with our courage and downcast by the darkness of alleys empty except for a handful like us.

All this was not enough for me to leave until a “gang” broke into the flat I had rented in Al-Tiliani neighborhood, coming into the building in their civilian clothes, a mixture of black militia “tank tops,” fatigue trousers, shirts streaked with foul-smelling sweat, proudly displaying weapons and sniffing out corners in search of no one in particular.

The landlord, whose surname was Ayoubi, was the son of one of the oldest Damascene families. The pictures on the walls of his home bore witness to generations of Ayoubis, to the valiant leader Salah al-Din. This 80-year-old Professor Yasser Ayoubi, an ex-judge and international arbitrator in Switzerland, walked into our flat, choking with outrage at the surrealism of what was going on. He knocked on the doors of his tenants’ homes, accompanying a foul-smelling gang carrying weapons, looking for people fleeing from hot spots.

“It isn’t right to let them heat up the area.”

This is what one of them said, in a thick accent — as coastal as possible in defiance of all that remained Damascene in a city that was no longer Damascus. He was loading a hateful sectarian significance onto a cherished national accent. He wanted to assert the Alawi ‘qaf’, which had not always been Alawite. But in these times of madness between loyalty and opposition, the accent was made to carry an unhappy history of sectarian tragedy and tales of abuse and killing among Alawites and Sunnis.

At the time, I was living with a new lover who had been detained and questioned in the lobby of my building. He had escaped their unwelcome interrogations by referring them to me. He showed them a forged identification card which exempted him from obligatory military service. After a brief call to me on his mobile phone, in which he reminded me of his fake personal data, I realized from the urgency in his voice that he might have escaped certain arrest.

My blood curdled as the phone call ended with the knocking on the door of my flat. I opened the door to the armed group and saw that our landlord the judge had been dragged in by the armed intruders. His face was a bright red from a combination of age and outrage, and the veins of his temples were throbbing. His anxiety surprisingly had a calming effect on me. Thus, I wore a mask of stupidity as I laughingly opened my laptop to them, and still laughing incongruously, I explained that the other computer belonged to a male friend. As I was being subjected to a search and a conversation that was serious to the point of tears, I made it clear that I was writing a Ramadan series along with a friend, and that we composed it here in this flat. Shuffling with growing alarm between the bedroom and the lounge, I would remember some small thing and bring copies of documentaries with my name printed on them as a producer, and my novels as testimonials to good behavior, as well as translations of my work that showed my name in English. As they became more openly hostile and tiresome, I laughed nervously in my colorful morning pyjamas.

The landlord gave me looks to shut up while I continued to chatter like someone touched with madness. I was afraid and they were brutal.

“We saw your husband at the door of the building, what does he do?”

“I’m not married!”

There was a watchful silence and searching stares. My tongue dried out and sweat trickled from under my arm as it does on a terrified frog’s skin. I tried to say something then looked for help towards Mr. Ayoubi, the landlord. Like someone undressing on a public road I said:

“Yes, that’s Osama, the friend I write with here. He told you he is my husband to explain his leaving my home at nine in the morning.”

They looked at me, then at the judge, at the books with my name on them, then at my pictures in bathing suits on the laptop. They stared and stared. Then one of them said cunningly, like one who has understood it all and has arrived at the secret of the creation of the universe:

“He shouldn’t have lied. We don’t interfere in ‘personal’ matters. The ‘boys’ do not interfere in ‘personal’ matters!”

The ‘boys’ drank coffee, and I drank my idiotic giggles. That invasion was not what really frightened me, nor my run-away husband, who was not my husband at all. It was the comedy played out when I was asked by one of them about the quality of my books, and I answered, still in my buffoon’s pyjamas with the stripes down and across, in self-defence, that I was a novelist. I shut up completely when they asked me if I had written about the homeland.

“You have written about the homeland of course?”

The question rang in my ears like a church bell at a funeral. I carried it with me even in my nightmares. That night, my father’s body came to me; I saw his hand outstretched towards me, and I saw that I had not let him down. I tried to extend my hand too, but my arm was cut off from the shoulder. I could not focus, as if I knew what was to come. I was silent. My throat was not constricted by horror, I did not scream soundlessly and wake up trembling, sweating the water of my soul. I did not do any of this. I fell silent waiting for shots from a hidden gun, or the edge of a sledgehammer to fall on my neck, my breasts, my right knee, on my head that remembers the corpse living in its consciousness, the body of a murdered father, in a country that has turned entirely into murderers. I did not wake up from that dream; its substance never went away. Fear enveloped me like the spit of a frog: the more I flicked it away the more it stained me with filth. It attached itself to my throat, to the walls of my heart and the coils of the grey matter of my brain.

I wanted to escape from all of this as I was used to doing, but I needed money, for it was the anchor to my safety, the only country where I did not feel alienated. The more I had, the more doors would open to me. Neither languages, nor identities, nor affiliation, nor tenuous feelings are suitable for researchers in sociology. Money was created to settle all nonsensical problems related to philosophy and ethics. But Khalil and Marla controlled me now from their grave with the legacy that was no longer mine. It was this that had led to my madness and turned me into a murderess.

But was I really a novelist, did I love words, test them, carry them like a weapon, dandify myself with them?  Did I master conversation, shelter with layers of interpretations, hide among the walls of images, and the metaphor of thoughts lost in a linguistic delusion? What did words add to my life, protect me from? Because nothing in my life was really frightening, a life that was not even worthy of a novel: everything in it was shameful, very trivial. Parents spoiled by overindulgence, raised within entire families who fed their arrogance. A rural father from titled country ‘Aghas’ and big landowners, who had never experienced poverty or suffered in any way so that he had to clear his reputation or purify his conscience. He was the star of his village for his university distinction, and for being the first physician in a very small cold village, fenced by the wind and sheltered by clouds. He came to Damascus to meet my mother, a lady of breathtaking beauty, a woman steeped in wealth and abundance. She grew up doing whatever she wanted, learning languages, traveling, dancing, smoking and falling in love over and over again. She lived to walk through life in houses of elegance and marble tiles, among fountains, miniature etchings, and open spaces of sky in the oldest houses of Damascus and its breathtaking princely buildings.

 

Street art, Dubai.

 

I arrived in Dubai at five in the morning, the hour of grace. It was like a moist fog walking with you on the pavement on a day of leisurely living. Have you ever seen the fog at dawn in Dubai, a city that rose out of the fog, from a wish that became true when someone blew into a cloud? Ever since then, the rain carries its thunders every winter and goes to water that land, and every winter there is rain.

Water is the story of this land, followed by farmers and pursued by shepherds. The city that rose from desire was beautiful, the young city lacking memory and wisdom escaped the curse of time. It was not burdened with the weight of the tales of the residents, it threw them off from its skyscrapers and scattered them to be shared by the wind and the deserts.

Old stories belong to the old and those who inherit the dead. It is a city with no time for memory, a city that is difficult to capture. It cannot speak about the past. You need to live its present. A floating city, indifferent to being an easy subject for satire and resentment.

There is no hypocrisy nor compassion in Dubai. There are those loved and those damned, the rich, and those who gaze at the rich. No anguish here, everything is temporary. Disappointment is a gentle prick to the heart … for none of this is yours: the place does not allow you to seize things, possess them, bequeath them. You cannot pass the city on to generations after you and create descendants. There are no grandparents in Dubai. The tired cities of the East retain them, with their death and dementia, and a history of violence is engraved with hot iron on the walls of their homes demolished by nostalgia and treacherous times.

This is a city without a history.

From the first gust of the heat on a humid evening, I fell in love. The metropolis with its languages ​​and nationalities gathered on the pavements and cafés, the captivating buildings, the crowded streets, the lavish lighting of the glorious city with its dancing buildings filled me with a feeling of lightness, the desire to walk around the face of a gentle god. The city was a beautiful young girl without memories eating away at her, no unhappy history to ravage her face made beautiful by a caring lover.

In the streets of Dubai, dreamers walk, nouveau tourists, nouveau travelers, with their shorts and open sandals, their elegant gait, their expensive cameras, their fast cars, their night yachts and their music pulsating with a hundred rhythms. It is a city with a deep river, nearby sands, and beaches for night swimming. The beach is a city open for hurried love and “rushed” relationships. Everything in Dubai is easy and temporary: enjoy and run away before the city entices you from yourself and you think to make all this yours. Even if you are seduced by an appetite for possession, abstain. Dubai will escape from you like the air; it is a city of dreams outside reality, too beautiful to be reduced to the material. It told me this when it gave me the gift of its light so that I saw in my blindness a discernible path for pedestrians and passers-by. I understood all this from the first trembling of the warm evening.  I will not share its strange music. I will hum my melody softly so that it harmonises with its carefully distributed orchestra. I will dance and live to its music with the lightness of a cat. I will run away before the city wakes up to my exposed face and flees from me then drops me from its slippery edges into a sand cemetery.

In Dubai I lived in a hotel for six months. My delightful room looked out from the eleventh floor on Sheikh Zayed street, along an infinite stretch of buildings with irregular shadows. The buildings with their graceful architecture seemed to be always dancing, they moved towards the horizon like the body of a woman, stretching. The agreeable metro building makes you feel that everything is as it should be and does not frighten you by taking you underground. The Dubai metro moves from light to light. It rises a little like spring air, in a single line toing and froing. Getting lost is not permitted in Dubai. The directions are arranged according to your whim and being lost is a meaningless word in a place open to all places.

There, in a luxury hotel suite, I lived in a place bigger than a room and smaller than a house. I waited for something to change after dozens of meetings with television stations, actors and directors of production companies. My life was an act of waiting and dullness, a simple summarized life without details, gossip, or memories of a violated homeland, and a relative who stole my house and exiled me out of all the places, a dead mother, a murdered father, and a lover who might have died under torture. In my safe hotel, I was completely reduced to easy “data.” My identity and my name were no longer important. Hotel rooms do not give you that distinction. It was enough to know the number of your room to wash away problems effortlessly: food, cleaning, coffee at all times, services provided by strangers to strangers. Your nationality, neglected in the suitcase, does not sting you with its identifying features. You leave it in the suitcase for a while. You cry quickly, get angry quickly, starve, get cold, grieve, exercise all your feelings quickly, none here cares about having your feelings flow over them while they brush them away for you, slowly. These are the responsibilities of the homeland and those who live in it: you overflow and flood your home, your loved ones, your friends, the inhabitants of your street, your neighborhood, your city, and the country you belong to.

In Dubai, you must practice your humanity in a hurry. Hotel rooms teach you to use your time efficiently, to curtail the small talk. Fortunately, your features do not reveal your identity and they protect you from casual busybodies. You are relieved. No one has cottoned onto your tale and asked you about your strange blood-soaked country. Everything here is rushed except sleep: you do not know how to buy it nor who stole it from you. Time is drawn-out. It erodes all of your strengths: your nostalgia, your eloquence. It might even make you feel immortal. The howling sandy breeze persuades you to rush back to your hotel room and finally feel that you have a shelter.

I lived in that room for a long time but then became tired of the delays, the lying, the dishonest apologies. And hotels were no longer romantic. After six months, even the spacious twin circular beds, with or without a partner, had lost their magic, their power to a astonish. Nothing excited any longer. I spent my time in getting to know Jennifer.

Dubai is a city that should be ‘remote’ so the music of the word could be felt, and the deception of migration confirmed. Here in this “remoteness,” a hotel room, arbitrary in shape and size, managed to accommodate the chaos of an entire life. The maid, who did not notice that I had followed her into the room to get my money that was scattered in all the bags, gasped. Her gasp told tales that were not biblical and did not aspire to be that. It was a gasp with an Arabic rhythm, a rhythm that had been crushed by a train.

 

Abeer Esber

Abeer Esber Born in Damascus in 1974, Abeer Esber is a writer and filmmaker. She read English literature at Damascus University, worked as a literary critic for eight years, and has published four novels: Lulu, Manazil al-Ghiyyab (House of Absence), Qasqis Waraq... Read more

Born in Damascus in 1974, Abeer Esber is a writer and filmmaker. She read English literature at Damascus University, worked as a literary critic for eight years, and has published four novels: Lulu, Manazil al-Ghiyyab (House of Absence), Qasqis Waraq (Cutting Paper) and Suqout Hurr (Free Fall), published in Arabic in Beirut in 2019. She has written and directed documentaries, fiction short films, and TV series. She lives in Montreal.

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Nouha Homad

Nouha Homad Nouha Homad has had a career as university professor teaching English and comparative literature, and French and Spanish language and literature. She is a writer, editor, translator and artist. Syrian by birth and parentage, Homad grew up in Paris, Rome,... Read more

Nouha Homad has had a career as university professor teaching English and comparative literature, and French and Spanish language and literature. She is a writer, editor, translator and artist. Syrian by birth and parentage, Homad grew up in Paris, Rome, Cairo, Lisbon, Buenos Aires and Damascus, absorbing languages and cultural experiences along the way. She has since lived in Beirut, Amman, Washington DC, Tripoli, London and Montreal among other places and this has continued to enrich and influence her cosmopolitan vision. She resides in Montreal, Quebec.

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Books

Fairouz: The Peacemaker and Champion of Palestine

1 OCTOBER 2023 • By Dima Issa
Fairouz: The Peacemaker and Champion of Palestine
Fiction

“Kaleidoscope: In Pursuit of the Real in a Virtual World”—fiction from Dina Abou Salem

1 OCTOBER 2023 • By Dina Abou Salem
“Kaleidoscope: In Pursuit of the Real in a Virtual World”—fiction from Dina Abou Salem
Art & Photography

Adel Abidin, October 2023

1 OCTOBER 2023 • By TMR
Adel Abidin, October 2023
Art & Photography

World Picks From the Editors, Sept 29—Oct 15, 2023

29 SEPTEMBER 2023 • By TMR
World Picks From the Editors, Sept 29—Oct 15, 2023
Books

“Sadness in My Heart”—a story by Hilal Chouman

3 SEPTEMBER 2023 • By Hilal Chouman, Nashwa Nasreldin
“Sadness in My Heart”—a story by Hilal Chouman
Film

The Soil and the Sea: The Revolutionary Act of Remembering

7 AUGUST 2023 • By Farah-Silvana Kanaan
<em>The Soil and the Sea</em>: The Revolutionary Act of Remembering
Poetry

Three Poems from Pantea Amin Tofangchi’s Glazed With War

3 AUGUST 2023 • By Pantea Amin Tofangchi
Three Poems from Pantea Amin Tofangchi’s <em>Glazed With War</em>
Book Reviews

Can the Kurdish Women’s Movement Transform the Middle East?

31 JULY 2023 • By Matt Broomfield
Can the Kurdish Women’s Movement Transform the Middle East?
Book Reviews

Why Isn’t Ghaith Abdul-Ahad a Household Name?

10 JULY 2023 • By Iason Athanasiadis
Why Isn’t Ghaith Abdul-Ahad a Household Name?
Opinion

The End of the Palestinian State? Jenin Is Only the Beginning

10 JULY 2023 • By Yousef M. Aljamal
The End of the Palestinian State? Jenin Is Only the Beginning
Beirut

“The City Within”—fiction from MK Harb

2 JULY 2023 • By MK Harb
“The City Within”—fiction from MK Harb
Cities

In Shahrazad’s Hammam—fiction by Ahmed Awadalla

2 JULY 2023 • By Ahmed Awadalla
In Shahrazad’s Hammam—fiction by Ahmed Awadalla
Arabic

Inside the Giant Fish—excerpt from Rawand Issa’s graphic novel

2 JULY 2023 • By Rawand Issa, Amy Chiniara
Inside the Giant Fish—excerpt from Rawand Issa’s graphic novel
Art & Photography

Newly Re-Opened, Beirut’s Sursock Museum is a Survivor

12 JUNE 2023 • By Arie Amaya-Akkermans
Newly Re-Opened, Beirut’s Sursock Museum is a Survivor
Editorial

EARTH: Our Only Home

4 JUNE 2023 • By Jordan Elgrably
EARTH: Our Only Home
Arabic

Arab Theatre Grapples With Climate Change, Borders, War & Love

4 JUNE 2023 • By Hassan Abdulrazzak
Arab Theatre Grapples With Climate Change, Borders, War & Love
Music

Artist At Work: Maya Youssef Finds Home in the Qanun

22 MAY 2023 • By Rana Asfour
Artist At Work: Maya Youssef Finds Home in the Qanun
Book Reviews

Rebecca Makkai’s New Novel Makes Us Question What We Know

8 MAY 2023 • By Deborah Williams
Rebecca Makkai’s New Novel Makes Us Question What We Know
Opinion

Nurredin Amro’s Epic Battle to Save His Home From Demolition

24 APRIL 2023 • By Nora Lester Murad
Nurredin Amro’s Epic Battle to Save His Home From Demolition
Essays

When a Country is not a Country—the Chimera of Borders

17 APRIL 2023 • By Ara Oshagan
When a Country is not a Country—the Chimera of Borders
Essays

Artsakh and the Truth About the Legend of Monte Melkonian

17 APRIL 2023 • By Seta Kabranian-Melkonian
Artsakh and the Truth About the Legend of Monte Melkonian
Beirut

Remembering the Armenian Genocide From Lebanon

17 APRIL 2023 • By Mireille Rebeiz
Remembering the Armenian Genocide From Lebanon
Beirut

Tel Aviv-Beirut, a Film on War, Love & Borders

20 MARCH 2023 • By Karim Goury
<em>Tel Aviv-Beirut</em>, a Film on War, Love & Borders
Beirut

War and the Absurd in Zein El-Amine’s Watermelon Stories

20 MARCH 2023 • By Rana Asfour
War and the Absurd in Zein El-Amine’s <em>Watermelon</em> Stories
Fiction

“Counter Strike”—a story by MK HARB

5 MARCH 2023 • By MK Harb
“Counter Strike”—a story by MK HARB
Fiction

“Mother Remembered”—Fiction by Samir El-Youssef

5 MARCH 2023 • By Samir El-Youssef
“Mother Remembered”—Fiction by Samir El-Youssef
Essays

More Photographs Taken From The Pocket of a Dead Arab

5 MARCH 2023 • By Saeed Taji Farouky
More Photographs Taken From The Pocket of a Dead Arab
Cities

The Odyssey That Forged a Stronger Athenian

5 MARCH 2023 • By Iason Athanasiadis
The Odyssey That Forged a Stronger Athenian
Book Reviews

Yemen War Survivors Speak in What Have You Left Behind?

20 FEBRUARY 2023 • By Saliha Haddad
Yemen War Survivors Speak in <em>What Have You Left Behind?</em>
Beirut

The Curious Case of Middle Lebanon

13 FEBRUARY 2023 • By Amal Ghandour
The Curious Case of Middle Lebanon
Beirut

Arab Women’s War Stories, Oral Histories from Lebanon

13 FEBRUARY 2023 • By Evelyne Accad
Arab Women’s War Stories, Oral Histories from Lebanon
Book Reviews

Sabyl Ghoussoub Heads for Beirut in Search of Himself

23 JANUARY 2023 • By Adil Bouhelal
Sabyl Ghoussoub Heads for Beirut in Search of Himself
Art

On Lebanon and Lamia Joreige’s “Uncertain Times”

23 JANUARY 2023 • By Arie Amaya-Akkermans
On Lebanon and Lamia Joreige’s “Uncertain Times”
Book Reviews

Mohamed Makhzangi Despairs at Man’s Cruelty to Animals

26 DECEMBER 2022 • By Saliha Haddad
Mohamed Makhzangi Despairs at Man’s Cruelty to Animals
Fiction

Broken Glass, a short story

15 DECEMBER 2022 • By Sarah AlKahly-Mills
<em>Broken Glass</em>, a short story
Film

The Swimmers and the Mardini Sisters: a True Liberation Tale

15 DECEMBER 2022 • By Rana Haddad
<em>The Swimmers</em> and the Mardini Sisters: a True Liberation Tale
Art

Museums in Exile—MO.CO’s show for Chile, Sarajevo & Palestine

12 DECEMBER 2022 • By Jordan Elgrably
Museums in Exile—MO.CO’s show for Chile, Sarajevo & Palestine
Book Reviews

Fida Jiryis on Palestine in Stranger in My Own Land

28 NOVEMBER 2022 • By Diana Buttu
Fida Jiryis on Palestine in <em>Stranger in My Own Land</em>
Columns

For Electronica Artist Hadi Zeidan, Dance Clubs are Analogous to Churches

24 OCTOBER 2022 • By Melissa Chemam
For Electronica Artist Hadi Zeidan, Dance Clubs are Analogous to Churches
Editorial

You Don’t Have to Be A Super Hero to Be a Heroine

15 OCTOBER 2022 • By TMR
You Don’t Have to Be A Super Hero to Be a Heroine
Film

Ziad Kalthoum: Trajectory of a Syrian Filmmaker

15 SEPTEMBER 2022 • By Viola Shafik
Ziad Kalthoum: Trajectory of a Syrian Filmmaker
Essays

Kairo Koshary, Berlin’s Egyptian Food Truck

15 SEPTEMBER 2022 • By Mohamed Radwan
Kairo Koshary, Berlin’s Egyptian Food Truck
Essays

Exile, Music, Hope & Nostalgia Among Berlin’s Arab Immigrants

15 SEPTEMBER 2022 • By Diana Abbani
Exile, Music, Hope & Nostalgia Among Berlin’s Arab Immigrants
Art & Photography

16 Formidable Lebanese Photographers in an Abbey

5 SEPTEMBER 2022 • By Nada Ghosn
16 Formidable Lebanese Photographers in an Abbey
Film

Two Syrian Brothers Find Themselves in “We Are From There”

22 AUGUST 2022 • By Angélique Crux
Two Syrian Brothers Find Themselves in “We Are From There”
Book Reviews

Questionable Thinking on the Syrian Revolution

1 AUGUST 2022 • By Fouad Mami
Questionable Thinking on the Syrian Revolution
Art

Abundant Middle Eastern Talent at the ’22 Avignon Theatre Fest

18 JULY 2022 • By Nada Ghosn
Abundant Middle Eastern Talent at the ’22 Avignon Theatre Fest
Film Reviews

War and Trauma in Yemen: Asim Abdulaziz’s “1941”

15 JULY 2022 • By Farah Abdessamad
War and Trauma in Yemen: Asim Abdulaziz’s “1941”
Film

Lebanon in a Loop: A Retrospective of “Waves ’98”

15 JULY 2022 • By Youssef Manessa
Lebanon in a Loop: A Retrospective of “Waves ’98”
Columns

Why I left Lebanon and Became a Transitional Citizen

27 JUNE 2022 • By Myriam Dalal
Why I left Lebanon and Became a Transitional Citizen
Fiction

“Godshow.com”—a short story by Ahmed Naji

15 JUNE 2022 • By Ahmed Naji, Rana Asfour
“Godshow.com”—a short story by Ahmed Naji
Fiction

Rabih Alameddine: “Remembering Nasser”

15 JUNE 2022 • By Rabih Alameddine
Rabih Alameddine: “Remembering Nasser”
Film

Saeed Taji Farouky: “Strange Cities Are Familiar”

15 JUNE 2022 • By Saeed Taji Farouky
Saeed Taji Farouky: “Strange Cities Are Familiar”
Fiction

Dima Mikhayel Matta: “This Text Is a Very Lonely Document”

15 JUNE 2022 • By Dima Mikhayel Matta
Dima Mikhayel Matta: “This Text Is a Very Lonely Document”
Fiction

“The Salamander”—fiction from Sarah AlKahly-Mills

15 JUNE 2022 • By Sarah AlKahly-Mills
“The Salamander”—fiction from Sarah AlKahly-Mills
Art & Photography

Film Review: “Memory Box” on Lebanon Merges Art & Cinema

13 JUNE 2022 • By Arie Amaya-Akkermans
Film Review: “Memory Box” on Lebanon Merges Art & Cinema
Film

Art Film Depicts the Landlocked Drama of Nagorno-Karabakh

2 MAY 2022 • By Taline Voskeritchian
Art Film Depicts the Landlocked Drama of Nagorno-Karabakh
Beirut

Fairouz is the Voice of Lebanon, Symbol of Hope in a Weary Land

25 APRIL 2022 • By Melissa Chemam
Fairouz is the Voice of Lebanon, Symbol of Hope in a Weary Land
Book Reviews

Joumana Haddad’s The Book of Queens: a Review

18 APRIL 2022 • By Laila Halaby
Joumana Haddad’s <em>The Book of Queens</em>: a Review
Art & Photography

Ghosts of Beirut: a Review of “displaced”

11 APRIL 2022 • By Karén Jallatyan
Ghosts of Beirut: a Review of “displaced”
Columns

Nowruz and The Sins of the New Day

21 MARCH 2022 • By Maha Tourbah
Nowruz and The Sins of the New Day
Columns

Music in the Middle East: Bring Back Peace

21 MARCH 2022 • By Melissa Chemam
Music in the Middle East: Bring Back Peace
Poetry

Three Poems of Love and Desire by Nouri Al-Jarrah

15 MARCH 2022 • By Nouri Al-Jarrah
Three Poems of Love and Desire by Nouri Al-Jarrah
Art

Fiction: “Skin Calluses” by Khalil Younes

15 MARCH 2022 • By Khalil Younes
Fiction: “Skin Calluses” by Khalil Younes
Columns

“There’s Nothing Worse Than War”

24 FEBRUARY 2022 • By Jordan Elgrably
“There’s Nothing Worse Than War”
Film

“The Translator” Brings the Syrian Dilemma to the Big Screen

7 FEBRUARY 2022 • By Jordan Elgrably
“The Translator” Brings the Syrian Dilemma to the Big Screen
Fiction

Fiction from “Free Fall”: I fled the city as a murderer whose crime had just been uncovered

15 JANUARY 2022 • By Abeer Esber, Nouha Homad
Fiction from “Free Fall”: I fled the city as a murderer whose crime had just been uncovered
Book Reviews

Temptations of the Imagination: how Jana Elhassan and Samar Yazbek transmogrify the world

10 JANUARY 2022 • By Rana Asfour
Temptations of the Imagination: how Jana Elhassan and Samar Yazbek transmogrify the world
Columns

Sudden Journeys: From Munich with Love and Realpolitik

27 DECEMBER 2021 • By Jenine Abboushi
Sudden Journeys: From Munich with Love and Realpolitik
Comix

Lebanon at the Point of Drowning in Its Own…

15 DECEMBER 2021 • By Raja Abu Kasm, Rahil Mohsin
Lebanon at the Point of Drowning in Its Own…
Comix

How to Hide in Lebanon as a Western Foreigner

15 DECEMBER 2021 • By Nadiyah Abdullatif, Anam Zafar
How to Hide in Lebanon as a Western Foreigner
Essays

Objective Brits, Subjective Syrians

6 DECEMBER 2021 • By Rana Haddad
Objective Brits, Subjective Syrians
Beirut

Sudden Journeys: The Villa Salameh Bequest

29 NOVEMBER 2021 • By Jenine Abboushi
Sudden Journeys: The Villa Salameh Bequest
Music Reviews

Electronic Music in Riyadh?

22 NOVEMBER 2021 • By Melissa Chemam
Electronic Music in Riyadh?
Art

Etel Adnan’s Sun and Sea: In Remembrance

19 NOVEMBER 2021 • By Arie Amaya-Akkermans
Etel Adnan’s Sun and Sea: In Remembrance
Book Reviews

Diary of the Collapse—Charif Majdalani on Lebanon’s Trials by Fire

15 NOVEMBER 2021 • By A.J. Naddaff
<em>Diary of the Collapse</em>—Charif Majdalani on Lebanon’s Trials by Fire
Interviews

The Anguish of Being Lebanese: Interview with Author Racha Mounaged

18 OCTOBER 2021 • By A.J. Naddaff
The Anguish of Being Lebanese: Interview with Author Racha Mounaged
Book Reviews

Racha Mounaged’s Debut Novel Captures Trauma of Lebanese Civil War

18 OCTOBER 2021 • By A.J. Naddaff
Racha Mounaged’s Debut Novel Captures Trauma of Lebanese Civil War
Interviews

Interview With Prisoner X, Accused by the Bashar Al-Assad Regime of Terrorism

15 OCTOBER 2021 • By Jordan Elgrably
Interview With Prisoner X, Accused by the Bashar Al-Assad Regime of Terrorism
Art & Photography

Displaced: From Beirut to Los Angeles to Beirut

15 SEPTEMBER 2021 • By Ara Oshagan
Displaced: From Beirut to Los Angeles to Beirut
Latest Reviews

The Limits of Empathy in Rabih Alameddine’s Refugee Saga

15 SEPTEMBER 2021 • By Dima Alzayat
The Limits of Empathy in Rabih Alameddine’s Refugee Saga
Columns

Beirut Drag Queens Lead the Way for Arab LGBTQ+ Visibility

8 AUGUST 2021 • By Anonymous
Beirut Drag Queens Lead the Way for Arab LGBTQ+ Visibility
Art & Photography

Gaza’s Shababek Gallery for Contemporary Art

14 JULY 2021 • By Yara Chaalan
Gaza’s Shababek Gallery for Contemporary Art
Art

Malak Mattar — Gaza Artist and Survivor

14 JULY 2021 • By Jordan Elgrably
Malak Mattar — Gaza Artist and Survivor
Columns

The Semantics of Gaza, War and Truth

14 JULY 2021 • By Mischa Geracoulis
The Semantics of Gaza, War and Truth
Book Reviews

ISIS and the Absurdity of War in the Age of Twitter

4 JULY 2021 • By Jessica Proett
ISIS and the Absurdity of War in the Age of Twitter
Columns

Lebanon’s Wasta Has Contributed to the Country’s Collapse

14 JUNE 2021 • By Samir El-Youssef
Lebanon’s Wasta Has Contributed to the Country’s Collapse
Columns

Lebanese Oppose Corruption with a Game of Wasta

14 JUNE 2021 • By Victoria Schneider
Lebanese Oppose Corruption with a Game of Wasta
Essays

Syria’s Ruling Elite— A Master Class in Wasta

14 JUNE 2021 • By Lawrence Joffe
Syria’s Ruling Elite— A Master Class in Wasta
Weekly

War Diary: The End of Innocence

23 MAY 2021 • By Arie Amaya-Akkermans
War Diary: The End of Innocence
Art

The Murals of Yemen’s Haifa Subay

14 MAY 2021 • By Farah Abdessamad
The Murals of Yemen’s Haifa Subay
Essays

From Damascus to Birmingham, a Selected Glossary

14 MAY 2021 • By Frances Zaid
From Damascus to Birmingham, a Selected Glossary
Weekly

Beirut Brings a Fragmented Family Together in “The Arsonists’ City”

9 MAY 2021 • By Rana Asfour
Latest Reviews

Lost in Marseille

17 APRIL 2021 • By Catherine Vincent
Lost in Marseille
Columns

Memory and the Assassination of Lokman Slim

14 MARCH 2021 • By Claire Launchbury
Memory and the Assassination of Lokman Slim
Columns

The Truth About Syria: Mahmoud’s Story

14 MARCH 2021 • By Mischa Geracoulis
The Truth About Syria: Mahmoud’s Story
Weekly

Hanane Hajj Ali, Portrait of a Theatrical Trailblazer

14 FEBRUARY 2021 • By Nada Ghosn
Hanane Hajj Ali, Portrait of a Theatrical Trailblazer
TMR 6 • Revolutions

Revolution in Art, a review of “Reflections” at the British Museum

14 FEBRUARY 2021 • By Malu Halasa
Revolution in Art, a review of “Reflections” at the British Museum
TMR 4 • Small & Indie Presses

Shahla Ujayli’s “Summer With the Enemy”

14 DECEMBER 2020 • By Shahla Ujayli
Shahla Ujayli’s “Summer With the Enemy”
TMR 4 • Small & Indie Presses

Shahla Ujayli’s “Summer With the Enemy”

14 DECEMBER 2020 • By Shahla Ujayli
Shahla Ujayli’s “Summer With the Enemy”
TMR 3 • Racism & Identity

Find the Others: on Becoming an Arab Writer in English

15 NOVEMBER 2020 • By Rewa Zeinati
TMR 3 • Racism & Identity

I am the Hyphen

15 NOVEMBER 2020 • By Sarah AlKahly-Mills
I am the Hyphen
World Picks

World Art, Music & Zoom Beat the Pandemic Blues

28 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Malu Halasa
World Art, Music & Zoom Beat the Pandemic Blues
Beirut

Wajdi Mouawad, Just the Playwright for Our Dystopian World

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Melissa Chemam
Wajdi Mouawad, Just the Playwright for Our Dystopian World
Art & Photography

Arts in the Pandemic Age

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Melissa Chemam
Arts in the Pandemic Age
Art

Beirut Comix Tell the Story

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Lina Ghaibeh & George Khoury
Beirut Comix Tell the Story
Editorial

Beirut, Beirut

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Jordan Elgrably
Beirut

It’s Time for a Public Forum on Lebanon

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Wajdi Mouawad
It’s Time for a Public Forum on Lebanon
Beirut

Salvaging the shipwreck of humanity in Amin Maalouf’s Adrift

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Sarah AlKahly-Mills
Salvaging the shipwreck of humanity in Amin Maalouf’s <em>Adrift</em>

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