Rabih Alameddine: “Remembering Nasser”

Joana Hadjithomas and Khalil Joreige, part of the Wonder Beirut project (1997–2006), as seen in Memory Box.

15 JUNE 2022 • By Rabih Alameddine
Joana Hadjithomas and Khalil Joreige, from the Wonder Beirut project (1997–2006), as seen in their film Memory Box.

 

Rabih Alameddine

  

While reading, I was reminded of a walk I used to take when I was much younger, during the summers in my father’s hometown. Memories of Nasser kept interrupting any attempt at concentration, so I put the book down.

We run from the house before anybody can stop us for chores, through the back, behind the fig trees, which provide us with good cover, and over the back fence to the back road — to the family cemetery, my family’s not his, for he will be buried, is buried now as a matter of fact, in Barouk, his father’s hometown, which was higher up, farther west, than my father’s. I am alive, but he is dead. Who would have bet on that outcome? I feel the stone in my hand as I read, sitting on my sofa, in my house in San Francisco, the sharpness of it, the weight, as I throw it at the gravestone, lapidary phrases seared in my mind like sentences in my book. My cousin Nasser, on one of those walks, stands atop a stone and reads, “Sheikh Nadim Talhouk, 1903-1957,” as he counts how many years that makes. “I can beat that,” he says proudly. He did not. Like a basketball announcer who tells us how well a player shoots his free throws right before the player misses, Nasser jinxed himself. On the walk, that day, he took his penis out and peed on Sheikh Nadim, desecrating what I once thought to be sacred, urine cleansing the old stone, making circles, my eyes fixed, aghast. Seductive blasphemy.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

My mother saved pictures of all her children in photo albums, each organized with dates and descriptions. Almost half of all my pictures in the albums included Nasser. There is a series of four pictures dated March 1961. I was eighteen months old, he was twenty-two months. A professional child photographer must have taken them, for most of the photos looked terribly contrived. We sit close to each other, should to shoulder, and look at a small basket. I put various toys in the basket. He waits for me to finish, after which he takes the basket and stands up. The last picture shows me trying to get up, to follow him most probably, his diapered butt framed in the picture as he leaves.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

I recall a poker game at Ann Arbor. It must have been 1978 or 1979. Nasser was visiting from England where he was attending some pay-for-a-degree college. The game was in my apartment. I was in my room, out for a couple of rounds, trying to reacquaint myself with my lungs after a heavy bout of cigarette-induced coughing. The whole table was Lebanese, as most of my acquaintances were at the time. This was long before I came out. Nasser felt at home. Someone made a joke I did not hear. I heard Nasser’s voice though. “No, no, no. I’ll not have it. Don’t make fun of him while I’m around. I’m his cousin.”

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

Fred, my lover, was jealous of him. It completely confused me. Fred used to say my face would light up whenever I spoke of Nasser. If he called, I would run to the phone. He was like my twin brother. How Fred could be jealous was beyond me. Sometimes I wonder whether I should have blamed Fred for what happened. What difference does it make? He is dead now, too.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

A classical pianist who was once a student in our school came back one day to talk to each class about piano playing. He then tested separately each boy and girl. When it was my turn, he had me turn my back to the piano and played a note, then a second note. I had to tell him whether the second note was lower or higher than the first. I got them all right. I knew I was doing well because he stayed longer with me than with any of the others. With Nasser, the test only lasted about half a minute. The pianist tested me for at least five minutes.

At the end of class, he wanted me to deliver a note to my parents. In it he told my parents that I was talented and I should be given piano lessons. Nobody else in class got a note. I gave the note to my mom when I got home. She waited till after dinner to tell my father. I was sitting in the den, playing with Nasser quietly, which we were supposed to do when my father was home. We heard my mother tell my father that I should be taking piano lessons. We heard my father say that he did not think it was a good idea. He thought I was too effeminate as it was without piano lessons. I felt Nasser move closer to me. He did not say anything. We sat next to each other and played with the Matchbox cars in front of us.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

A phone conversation:

– I have to get married.
– Why?
– What do you mean why? It’s what I want. People get married.
– I know that. I meant why now?
– Because it’s time. I’m tired of being a bachelor.
– Why all of a sudden?
– I don’t know. I don’t have matching plates.
– What are you talking about?
– I have no idea. Issam slept over at my house while he was here, and then when he went back to Beirut, he told my mom I don’t have matching plates. I don’t even know what matching plates have to do with anything. Mother called and said I needed a wife because I don’t have matching plates.
– You’re getting married because your mother wants you to have matching plates?
– Fuck you. I need a wife. What’s wrong with that? I want someone to greet me when I come home. I want sex. I’m tired of looking for it. We don’t all live in America where everybody fucks like rabbits.
– I thought you were fucking that woman I met.
– She’s married. I can only fuck her when her husband is not there. I need something more permanent.
– So you want to get married?
– That’s what I said. Why are you making a big deal out of this? I want to get married. We’re all going to get married. Why not now? It makes sense. I’m not a young buck anymore. Neither are you, you fucker. You should start thinking about getting married. It’ll make your father happy. You should be happy for me. I tell you I want to get married. You should be happy. What kind of friend are you?
– Hey, I’m happy. If you’re happy, I’m happy. I only wanted to know why now. Who’s the unlucky girl?
– Fuck you. The lucky girl. She’ll be damn lucky. I don’t know yet. We’re looking.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

One of my earliest memories is of an occurrence in a bathroom. I do not know where, or in what house. It is evening. Nasser and I are in the bathroom with a maid. She must be Egyptian or Lebanese because the language is Arabic. The tub is full. We are supposed to take our nightly bath, but we are using the toilet. Both of us need to shit. Nasser sits at the commode for a while. I feel really uncomfortable. I tell the maid that I need to go. She tells Nasser to get up and let me have a go. He complains that he is not done, but gets up anyway. He turns around to plead his case and I see a small, greenish-coloured turd in his anus. I tell him he can go back to the commode and finish. I can wait.

I must have been no more than three.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

In 1976, before either one of us left for school, during a lull in the fighting, we were in Chouiefat, driving towards Beirut. Nasser was driving his father’s car without his father knowing. Whenever his father had a card game, Nasser stole the car for a couple of hours and we took turns driving. A well-dressed man waved at us to stop. 

He asked us nicely if he could ride with us to Beirut since he was in a hurry. He sat in the back behind Nasser. He was charming as we conversed with us. He treated us like adults. As we drove, we noticed a new checkpoint on the road. Nasser started cursing. He hoped nobody would recognise him and tell his father. I thought maybe they would figure we had no license. Our passenger calmly told us not to worry. It was not us they were after. He looked distracted. At the checkpoint, a man in civilian clothes with a big handgun put his head in the window. He smiled at us. He said something about the danger of picking up strangers. The man then bent Nasser’s head with his left hand and with the other shot our passenger until the bullets ran out. Blood spurted everywhere. Our passenger died with a smile on his face, as if looking forward to death. It was the closest I would get to see first-hand the new breed of Lebanese fighters, those who would dedicate themselves to the ultimate sacrifice. I sat with my back to the window, facing the man with the gun, mouth agape. He let go of Nasser’s head.

“You never saw what I look like, right?” he asked us. He sneered. “I don’t want you young boys getting into any kind of trouble. Do we understand each other?”

Nasser could not even look at him. He was staring straight ahead. He could not bring himself to move.

“Do we understand each other?” the man repeated more sternly.

Nasser still could not move. He seemed paralyzed. “We didn’t see anything,” I screamed in a high-pitched voice. “We didn’t see nothing.”

“That’s good. Now why don’t you drive home.”

Nasser still stared ahead, unable to move a muscle. The man wanted us out of there, but Nasser could not move. Finally, I struck the back of Nasser’s head with my hand. “Move,” I screamed as loudly as I could. Finally, he looked at me. “Drive,” I yelled again. He put his foot to the pedal and we were out of there.

We drove for less than a kilometer. When we got to Khalde, I told Nasser to stop at the side of the road. I got him out of the car and walked him over to the beach. I dragged him into the water, both of us fully clothed. I washed him, washed the blood off. He let me dunk his head in the water to untangle the blood. I washed him, punctiliously and ritualistically, like washing the dead, or a blood baptism, the color intensifying in the water surrounding us and then dissipating quickly. I tried to remove as much of the blood as possible.

Once done, I took his hand and he followed. I walked him home, hand in hand, all the way. We left the car. It took us an hour and a half to get to his house. He was still unable to say anything and I did not talk to him, just walked him home. By the time we arrived our clothes were dry. We looked haggard, but that was not unnatural for us. Nobody noticed the remaining bloodstains. I undressed him and threw the clothes out. No reminders were left.

We did not say anything to anybody. The car was found with the corpse of a man who betrayed a militia leader. Everybody knew which handy-man had killed him, but nobody would have been able to touch him in any case. It was assumed the car was stolen to kidnap the man and kill him.

We were free.

We never ever spoke of it.

 ⬪ ⬪ ⬪

Another early recollection. Nasser and I shared a room, as well as a bed, in the mountain house, when we were younger. Through our window, when we first arrived, we always saw a blanket of red. The poppies covered the sloping field. Nasser and I would look through the window trying to find the one, lonesome poppy that was not part of the larger blanket. There was always one, sometimes two, rarely three, independent poppies, not like the rest, different. We loved that poppy.

Years later, I was reminded of that poppy while reading. Proust saw it too. He called it the poppy that had strayed and been lost by its fellows. As I read that, the memories came flooding back.

 ⬪ ⬪ ⬪

I met Fred in grad school. More precisely, I met Fred while I was attending Stanford and he was there to give a speech on the economies of the Middle East. I was in his hotel room within an hour of the end of his speech. I surprised myself. I was still closeted, but allowed myself to be seduced. He came on so strong that not one of my classmates had any doubt as to what was happening. He asked me to leave with him while everyone was still around. He outed me, so to speak.

We were together until he died in 1993, eleven years, only seven of them healthy though.

 ⬪ ⬪ ⬪

I can be walking when all of a sudden something reminds me of him. It can be anything, a flower, a man wearing a pair of jeans in a certain way. If I see a painting, I think of McEnroe, who is now an art dealer, which would of course bring me back to Nasser.

I remember him as he was when he was young, without the moustache, the fat, the alcoholism; fourteen, fifteen maybe.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

“Brother…my hand trembles so I cannot write. I cannot face you either because I will do harm. I am furious. How could you do this to me? I will leave you two…”

The note was crumpled and thrown in the waste basket. He said he did not want me to see it, but he left it in an empty waste basket.

He could not stay in an apartment with my lover and me. Fred was furious. Nasser was furious. They both blamed me.

From the beginning, Fred had wanted me to come out to my family. He thought as long as I did not tell my family about our relationship, I was not really committed to it. I could not. I was out in the United States and closeted in Lebanon. My two lives were separate. I felt it was better for everybody that way. When I met Fred, I cut out anything in my life that was Lebanese. Lebanon became this place I visited twice a year. To this day, I have not told my family.

When Nasser had come to the US for a business meeting, he thought he should come and stay with me for a week in San Francisco. I tried to clean up, to remove any trace of gayness in the house. Fred was livid. He did not allow me to move anything. My clothes and I were to remain in our room. Nothing would be hidden. He thought Nasser, if he loved me as much as I thought he did, would accept the situation. I told Fred there was no way Nasser would accept the situation. Once he knew, all he would be able to see when he looked at me is someone who takes it up the ass. Fred said there was more to being gay than taking it up the ass. Not for Nasser.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

In the beginning it was Ilie Nastasie, the great Romanian. Nasser idolized him. We played tennis constantly. I do not think either one of us could ever have been a great player. We were not athletically gifted, nor were we ever truly coached. Later, Nasser dropped poor Ilie for John. No one was more Nasser’s alter ego than McEnroe. I loved Borg, but Nasser breathed McEnroe. To Nasser, he represented everything that was great about the world.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

I remember I was at Nasser’s house visiting. Fred was sick back in San Francisco, but I needed a break. Nadia was making breakfast. Nasser’s two-year-old daughter, Layla, came in from the kitchen laughing loudly. “Abed is here,” she kept repeating. “Abed is here.”
Nasser picked her up and swung her around. “Don’t embarrass me in front of your uncle,” he chastized her jokingly.
“Who’s Abed?” I asked.
“The driver,” he said. “She has an infatuation for our driver.”
“Layla, you little tramp!” I joked.
He looked at me funny.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

Nasser’s father, Habib, was the family clown. Everybody loved him because he made you laugh, everybody except Nasser. I remember Nasser once telling me, after he had a few drinks, “How can you respect a man who left absolutely nothing but debts for his wife and children?” He truly abhorred his father, which I did not realize while Habib was alive, but which became apparent after his death. My father paid for everything when it came to his sister and her boys. They lacked nothing. Nasser began to idolize my father. It was only gradually that I realized I was being replaced.

After college, Nasser went to work in Kuwait through contacts that my father provided, while I stayed in the United States. First I stayed because of grad school, and then it was a great job with Booz Allen, a management consulting firm. At one point my company wanted to transfer me to Saudi Arabia thinking that as an Arab, I would be able to handle things better than the last couple of executives, who had burned out. I refused. They dangled money, status, and all they could think of, but I did not budge. I was starting a family in San Francisco with Fred. My father could not understand my wanting to stay away. At first, he conceded it was not a bad idea because the war was dragging on, but still he wanted me closer. Europe would have been preferable for him. I did not wish to tell him that the East Coast was too close to Lebanon for my taste. It was not that I disliked my family. I loved them dearly. I wanted a barrier, distance being the best I could think of, between us. I could not see how I could possibly be a complete person, let alone a gay one, if I hung around. Nasser hung around.

Slowly but surely, he became the son my father wished I were. He got married to a nice Druze girl from the mountains. They had a real house with matching plates, and she gave Nasser two boys and a girl. When the war was over, Nasser moved his family back to Beirut. Every time I went back to Beirut, I saw as much of Nasser as I did my family. He spent all of his time with my father.

Nasser picked up my father’s mannerisms. He talked like my father. He walked like my father. He gained weight like my father. He combed his hair like my father. He smoked like my father. And he drank like my father.

He died of heart disease and liver problems, exactly like my father.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

I never liked confrontation. When I was a young boy, Nasser’s mother would always try to get me to fight other children. I never wanted to fight. All the other kids would fight just to please her and other adults. They would constantly wrestle. I could not. My aunt would try to shame me by suggesting that her daughter could beat me. She probably could. She was a tomboy then, and years later, even after a marriage and four kids, I could swear that she was a lesbian. In a different culture, she would have been a true butch dyke, and a happy one at that.

In 1972, Nasser and I started a neighborhood soccer team. We called ourselves The Firebirds, an exotic name. We played a couple of games against other teams. In what would turn out to be our last game with the team, we were playing against another team with an older boy who must have taken offense at the way I looked or something. He wanted me to fight him. He was cussing and harassing me the entire game. At one point, while the game was going on, he started called me names and stood directly in front of me, face-to-face, not allowing me to go around him. I was unsure what to do. All of a sudden, Nasser came out of nowhere and punched him.

I had to enter the fray. While both teams watched, and no one tried to stop anything, Nasser and I beat up on this guy. I never fooled myself into believing that I added much to the fight. Nasser alone could have taken him out. But I tried to help. I held on to one of the older boy’s arms so Nasser could beat him up easier. When the damage was done, the rest of our team made fun of the way I had fought, limp wrist and all. That only made Nasser more furious, screaming at them for standing around and not doing anything. We stopped playing soccer.

Tennis suited us better.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

I dream about Nasser. He is a constant landmark in my dreams. I even have recurring dreams with him in them. In one, Nasser and I, as teenagers again, walk along until we arrive at a fork in the road. We don’t know which road to take. Each road has its own enticing features. We decide that he will go right and I left, and then we can tell each other what it was like when we get home.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

As a young boy, I would walk alone for hours. I would take a book and read as I walked. I would go out of the house to be by myself. I told myself stories of escape. I fantasized about being somewhere else.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

One afternoon, in 1974, Nasser’s mother was playing cards at a friend’s. We skipped school. We had some hash stored up. We ended up in his house, on the sofa, getting wasted. The house reeked, which we thought was totally hilarious.

His father walked in, shocking the hell out of us. “Hi, boys,” he said as he went straight to the bathroom. Nasser looked at me, shrugged, and we started giggling. When Habib came out, he was about to leave again when he looked at his watch.

“Aren’t you boys supposed to be in school?” he asked.
“We’re home to do a science experiment,” Nasser replied.
“That’s good. Okay then, I will see you boys later.” He turned the door handle and was about to leave when his nose twitched. “What’s that smell?”
“Smell?” Nasser asked.
“Must be the oven,” I said.
“The oven?”
“Yes,” I replied. “The science experiment was in the oven.”
“We were trying to dry a bird’s nest,” Nasser added.
“Except we burned it, which is why it smells.”
“It was wet because of the rain.”
“So we put it in the oven to dry,” I went on.
“But there were no eggs, just the nest.”
“And it burned.”
“So it wasn’t a complete failure because we figured out the combustion point.”
Nasser’s father just kept nodding. “That’s good. I’m glad you boys are so studious. Keep up the good work.” And he left.
“Combustion point?” I snickered. We giggled for a couple of hours.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

He told no one about Fred. He tried to pretend he did not know and never saw. Nonetheless, the wall went up. It might have seemed to the naked eye that it was the same, but since that day, it never was.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

I was there when he proposed to his wife, if you could call it that. Once Nasser decided he was going to get married, his mother began the requisite search. Before Nadia, he had gone out with two girls. He flew to Beirut for both dates. They met all the criteria so he asked them out. I had heard rumors, which he denied, that he was proposing on the first or second date and being rejected. He did not deny the rejection, only that he had asked so early on in the game.

With Nadia, I saw it happen. It was their second date. I felt like a Lebanese mezze so I went to a restaurant and they were both there. Nasser could not understand how I would want to be alone in a public place. I had to sit with them. She was pretty. That was the only thing I could be sure of about her. Two hours later, Nasser was talking about the time to get married. He was twenty-eight. She was nineteen. He told her he would be interested in marrying her. She said she had to think about it.

She did look up to the ceiling at one point and whisper to herself, “Nasser and Nadia,” and sort of nodded her head.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

Years later, when I brought up the overheard conversation about piano lessons, Nasser was shocked that I still remembered, surprised that I still blamed my father. He said I finally left home and if it were important that I take piano lessons, I would have. He said if it were such a big deal, I should take piano lessons now. Wasn’t I the free one now?

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

A conversation at the sickbed:

– You know, Nasser was that way too. He was always grumpy when…
– I know. I know. When you both had mumps, you were put in the same room and…
– Okay, okay. I get the hint.
– And you looked like matching bookends, with both your necks so swollen, and they kept you in that room for three weeks…
– I get the picture. I shouldn’t have brought it up.
– And you had a wonderful time, both of you, even though Nasser was grumpy at times, because he’s always grumpy when he’s sick.
– I’m sorry. Okay?

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

In another picture, dated the same in 1961, definitely by the same photographer, Nasser and I are looking up, something above captivating us, probably some toy. We look longingly.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

How old were we then, nine, ten? The cemetery was our favorite place. Few people went through there, so we had the place to ourselves. Our favorite grave was unsigned. It was built like a small pyramid with only three layers of marble. We tried to move the top slab numerous times. It was incredibly heavy. As Nasser got stronger, the marble slab frustrated him more and more.

Years later, after the war, I got Nasser to come walk with me through the cemetery. I wanted to see what it looked like. Exploded shells littered the grounds. The clean-up crews had removed the mines but not the “litter.” Our favourite grave was damaged, large holes and chips in the marble, yet the slab itself was unmoved.

“How could anybody do this?” I asked rhetorically.

“I did that. One time I got really angry, I came here and shot the fucker.”

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

I took him by the hand once — we could not have been more than five or six, maybe seven — and led him to his sister’s room. Everybody was out of the house so it was completely safe, but still he was nervous. I took out all her Barbies.

“You want to play with her dolls?” he asked me.
“Yes, it’s fun.”
“What if we got caught?”
“No one will know.”
“I don’t want to play with dolls.”
“It’s ok. You can be Ken.”

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

There is a word in Lebanese that has no corresponding word in English. Halash, or Yihloush, with a heavy h, means to pull hair out, or to yank someone’s hair. I always assumed that there was a Lebanese word for it, because we do it often, both to other people and ourselves. All you have to do is attend a funeral and you will see what I mean.

I began to wonder why a word did not exist in English when I saw Nasser pull his newly-wed wife’s hair and take her to the bedroom. I was visiting them in Kuwait. They had been married for about seven months. It was about 9:30 at night. Nasser asked if I wanted to get high. I agreed. Nadia had this look of utter disbelief. Nasser went into the bedroom. She followed him. I did not hear what she said, but she seemed perturbed. I heard Nasser say calmly, “What’s the big deal?”

Nasser came out with a pipe. He lit it and gave me a hit. We both smoked. Nadia came out of the bedroom, slamming the door, and went into the bathroom, slamming the door. She obviously had not locked the bathroom door because Nasser follower her and dragged her out by her hair into the bedroom. I heard a slap. Nasser came out as if nothing happened.

“I guess you have not smoked in a while,” I said.
“No, it’s been a while.”
Next day, Nadia was as chipper as ever.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

My father grew suddenly old and sad, fast, with full sail. It happened in only a few months. One trip he was fine; the next, six months later, he seemed engulfed in a sea of sorrows, his face sagging, crushed by the burden of idleness. He had stopped working between those two trips.

One time, my father sat in the den, in his chair, with Layla on his lap. He rocked her as she played with his sparse, white hair. She pulled a strand forward towards his eyes. “Ouch, you little devil, you,” he said, and tickled her. She giggled and tried to do it again. Nasser crouched next to my father. “Be careful when you do that,” he told his daughter. “You don’t want to hurt Grandpa.” He blew his daughter a kiss, and seemingly unconsciously, he flicked my father’s lock of hair back in its place. My father closed his eyes.

I had to return for his funeral two months later.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

When Fred started getting sick, he withdrew. I could not get through to him, did not know how to talk to him. I took care of him, but I was unable to be there for him. When he started getting sick, I began to feel lonely again.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

Nasser and I used to play phone tricks. We were good at it. One of my all time favorites is calling some lady and pretending we were phone technicians. Nasser would tell the woman to put her finger in the number four and dial. Then put it in, say, number seven and dial. Finally he would tell her to put her finger in her ass and dial. My other favorite was calling the pharmacies. I would call one and ask the pharmacist if he had a thermometer. He would say yes, and I would tell him to shove it up his ass, then hang up. Then Nasser would call ten minutes later and in all seriousness ask the pharmacist if some kid had called a while back and told him to shove a thermometer up his ass. The pharmacist would say yes in a huff. Nasser would tell him it was time to take it out, then hang up.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

When Nasser got married, he began to get rounder till he finally achieved his final pachydermatous heft. The last time I saw him, I realised that somewhere in there was the boy I used to know. My father succeeded in killing himself with excess, but it took him a lot longer than Nasser. My beautiful Nasser was a quicker study. He died at thirty-eight, a couple years after my father, a couple years after Fred.

⬪ ⬪ ⬪

While reading, I was reminded of a walk I took when I was much younger. Nasser and I were in the cemetery. He was being his usual mischievous self. He challenged me to throw stones at different graves. He looked at a grave of a Talhouk. “I don’t like any of them,” he said. He took his dick out and peed on the grave, on the entire family. “Don’t keep your mouth so open,” he said, “or I will pee in it.” He laughed.

We sat on our favorite grave, the pyramid. He took out his hunting knife. “I have to cut you,” he said. I resisted. I did not understand why we would need actual blood. Wouldn’t calling ourselves blood brothers be enough? He cut the tips of my two fingers and put them in his mouth. He looked me in my eyes the whole time. Shivers ran up my spine. I made small cuts on the tips of his fingers. I put them in my mouth and sucked. He let me suck on his fingers for as long as I wanted.

“We are now brothers,” he said.

 

First published in TANK ©2000 by Rabih Alameddine. Reprinted by permission of Rabih Alameddine and Aragi Inc. All rights reserved. Special thanks to Malu Halasa.

Rabih Alameddine

Rabih Alameddine Rabih Alameddine is the author of the novel An Unnecessary Woman as well as I, the Divine, Koolaids, The Hakawati, and the story collection, The Perv. In 2019, he won the John Dos Passos Prize for Literature, and in 2022 he won... Read more

Rabih Alameddine is the author of the novel An Unnecessary Woman as well as I, the Divine, Koolaids, The Hakawati, and the story collection, The Perv. In 2019, he won the John Dos Passos Prize for Literature, and in 2022 he won the PEN/Faulkner Award for his new novel, The Wrong End of the Telescope.

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Ali Cherri’s show at Marseille’s [mac] Is Watching You
Essays

Ziad Rahbani: The Making of a Lebanese Jazz Legend

8 AUGUST 2025 • By Diran Mardirian
Ziad Rahbani: The Making of a Lebanese Jazz Legend
Poetry

Nasser Rabah on Poetry and Gaza

4 JULY 2025 • By Nasser Rabah
Nasser Rabah on Poetry and Gaza
Art

Syria and the Future of Art: an Intimate Portrait

4 JULY 2025 • By Arie Amaya-Akkermans
Syria and the Future of Art: an Intimate Portrait
Arabic

Jawdat Fakreddine Presents Three Poems

20 MAY 2025 • By Jawdat Fakhreddine, Huda Fakhreddine
Jawdat Fakreddine Presents Three Poems
Beirut

Contretemps, a Bold Film on Lebanon’s Crises

16 MAY 2025 • By Jim Quilty
Contretemps, a Bold Film on Lebanon’s Crises
Book Reviews

A World in Crisis: Deep Vellum’s Best Literary Translations 2025

9 MAY 2025 • By Lara Vergnaud
A World in Crisis: Deep Vellum’s <em>Best Literary Translations 2025</em>
Featured excerpt

“Return to Ramallah,” an excerpt from Too Soon by Betty Shamieh

2 MAY 2025 • By Betty Shamieh
“Return to Ramallah,” an excerpt from <em>Too Soon</em> by Betty Shamieh
Cities

Heartbreak and Commemoration in Beirut’s Southern Suburbs

7 MARCH 2025 • By Sabah Haider
Heartbreak and Commemoration in Beirut’s Southern Suburbs
Fiction

Manifesto of Love & Revolution

7 MARCH 2025 • By Iskandar Abdalla
Manifesto of Love & Revolution
Book Reviews

Maya Abu Al-Hayyat’s Defiant Exploration of Palestinian Life

20 DECEMBER 2024 • By Zahra Hankir
Maya Abu Al-Hayyat’s Defiant Exploration of Palestinian Life
Book Reviews

Barrack Zailaa Rima’s Beirut Resists Categorization

6 DECEMBER 2024 • By Katie Logan
Barrack Zailaa Rima’s <em>Beirut</em> Resists Categorization
Art

In Lebanon, Art is a Matter of Survival

22 NOVEMBER 2024 • By Nada Ghosn
In Lebanon, Art is a Matter of Survival
Beirut

The Haunting Reality of Beirut, My City

8 NOVEMBER 2024 • By Roger Assaf, Zeina Hashem Beck
The Haunting Reality of <em>Beirut, My City</em>
Beirut

Between Two Sieges: Translating Roger Assaf in California

8 NOVEMBER 2024 • By Zeina Hashem Beck
Between Two Sieges: Translating Roger Assaf in California
Art & Photography

Artists & Animals: Adham Faramawy, Tarlan Lotfizadeh, Ouma & Mohammad Shaqdih

1 NOVEMBER 2024 • By Jelena Sofronijevic, Tarlan Lotfizadeh, Siobhán Shilton, Charlotte Bank
Artists & Animals: Adham Faramawy, Tarlan Lotfizadeh, Ouma & Mohammad Shaqdih
Art & Photography

The Palestinian Gazelle

1 NOVEMBER 2024 • By Manal Mahamid
The Palestinian Gazelle
Book Reviews

The Hybrid—The Case of Michael Vatikiotis

18 OCTOBER 2024 • By Rana Haddad
The Hybrid—The Case of Michael Vatikiotis
Fiction

The Last Millefeuille in Beirut

4 OCTOBER 2024 • By MK Harb
The Last Millefeuille in Beirut
Book Reviews

The Queer Arab Glossary —A Review

27 SEPTEMBER 2024 • By Bahi Ghubril
<em>The Queer Arab Glossary </em>—A Review
Film

Soudade Kaadan: Filmmaker Interview

30 AUGUST 2024 • By Jordan Elgrably
Soudade Kaadan: Filmmaker Interview
Art

Nabil Kanso: Lebanon and the Split of Life—a Review

2 AUGUST 2024 • By Sophie Kazan Makhlouf
Nabil Kanso: <em>Lebanon and the Split of Life</em>—a Review
Fiction

“The Cockroaches”—flash fiction

5 JULY 2024 • By Stanko Uyi Srsen
“The Cockroaches”—flash fiction
Essays

The Butcher’s Assistant—a true story set in Alexandria

5 JULY 2024 • By Bel Parker
The Butcher’s Assistant—a true story set in Alexandria
Fiction

“We Danced”—a story by MK Harb

5 JULY 2024 • By MK Harb
“We Danced”—a story by MK Harb
Fiction

“Paris of the Middle East”—fiction by MK Harb

1 APRIL 2024 • By MK Harb
“Paris of the Middle East”—fiction by MK Harb
Poetry

“The Scent Censes” & “Elegy With Precious Oil” by Majda Gama

4 FEBRUARY 2024 • By Majda Gama
“The Scent Censes” & “Elegy With Precious Oil” by Majda Gama
Essays

“Double Apple”—a short story by MK Harb

4 FEBRUARY 2024 • By MK Harb
“Double Apple”—a short story by MK Harb
Beirut

“The Summer They Heard Music”—a short story by MK Harb

3 DECEMBER 2023 • By MK Harb
“The Summer They Heard Music”—a short story by MK Harb
Fiction

“The Waiting Bones”—an essay by Maryam Haidari

3 DECEMBER 2023 • By Maryam Haidari, Salar Abdoh
“The Waiting Bones”—an essay by Maryam Haidari
Books

Huda Fakhreddine’s A Brief Time Under a Different Sun

3 DECEMBER 2023 • By Huda Fakhreddine, Rana Asfour
Huda Fakhreddine’s <em>A Brief Time Under a Different Sun</em>
Arabic

Unshackling Language in Arabic Children’s Literature

3 DECEMBER 2023 • By Nada Sabet
Unshackling Language in Arabic Children’s Literature
Fiction

“The Followers”—a short story by Youssef Manessa

3 DECEMBER 2023 • By Youssef Manessa
“The Followers”—a short story by Youssef Manessa
Art & Photography

War and Art: A Lebanese Photographer and His Protégés

13 NOVEMBER 2023 • By Nicole Hamouche
War and Art: A Lebanese Photographer and His Protégés
Arabic

ADONIS in Translation—Kareem Abu-Zeid with Ivan Eubanks

9 NOVEMBER 2023 • By Kareem James Abu-Zeid, Ivan Eubanks
ADONIS in Translation—Kareem Abu-Zeid with Ivan Eubanks
Art

Mohamed Al Mufti, Architect and Painter of Our Time

5 NOVEMBER 2023 • By Nicole Hamouche
Mohamed Al Mufti, Architect and Painter of Our Time
Book Reviews

The Archaeology of War

23 OCTOBER 2023 • By Arie Amaya-Akkermans
The Archaeology of War
Art & Photography

Middle Eastern Artists and Galleries at Frieze London

23 OCTOBER 2023 • By Sophie Kazan Makhlouf
Middle Eastern Artists and Galleries at Frieze London
Theatre

Hartaqât: Heresies of a World with Policed Borders

9 OCTOBER 2023 • By Nada Ghosn
<em>Hartaqât</em>: Heresies of a World with Policed Borders
Theatre

Lebanese Thespian Aida Sabra Blossoms in International Career

9 OCTOBER 2023 • By Nada Ghosn
Lebanese Thespian Aida Sabra Blossoms in International Career
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
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
Arabic

The End of Arabic and the Dumbing Down of America

28 AUGUST 2023 • By Jordan Elgrably
The End of Arabic and the Dumbing Down of America
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
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
Fiction

“Nadira of Tlemcen”—fiction from Abdellah Taïa

2 JULY 2023 • By Abdellah Taïa
“Nadira of Tlemcen”—fiction from Abdellah Taïa
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
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
Interviews

The Artist at Work—a Conversation with Souad Massi

1 MAY 2023 • By Jordan Elgrably
The Artist at Work—a Conversation with Souad Massi
Essays

The Outsourcing of Pain—On Work and Alienation

1 MAY 2023 • By Ahmed Awadalla
The Outsourcing of Pain—On Work and Alienation
Beirut

Remembering the Armenian Genocide From Lebanon

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

The Forced Disappearance of Street Vendors in Beirut

13 MARCH 2023 • By Ghida Ismail
The Forced Disappearance of Street Vendors in Beirut
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
Arabic

The Markaz Review Interview—Hisham Bustani

5 MARCH 2023 • By Rana Asfour
The Markaz Review Interview—Hisham Bustani
Columns

TMR’s Multilingual Lexicon of Love for Valentine’s Day

13 FEBRUARY 2023 • By TMR
TMR’s Multilingual Lexicon of Love for Valentine’s Day
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
Music

Berlin-Based Palestinian Returns to Arabic in new Amrat Album

23 JANUARY 2023 • By Melissa Chemam
Berlin-Based Palestinian Returns to Arabic in new <em>Amrat</em> Album
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”
Columns

Sudden Journeys: Morocco Encore

9 JANUARY 2023 • By Jenine Abboushi
Sudden Journeys: Morocco Encore
Fiction

Broken Glass, a short story

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

Our Shared Future: Marwa Arsanios’ “Reverse Shot”

28 NOVEMBER 2022 • By Mariam Elnozahy
Our Shared Future: Marwa Arsanios’ “Reverse Shot”
Art

An Interview with with Graphic Memoirist Malaka Gharib

15 NOVEMBER 2022 • By Rushda Rafeek
An Interview with with Graphic Memoirist Malaka Gharib
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
Poetry

Faces Hidden in the Dust by Ghalib—Two Ghazals

16 OCTOBER 2022 • By Tony Barnstone, Bilal Shaw
<em>Faces Hidden in the Dust by Ghalib</em>—Two Ghazals
Art & Photography

The Postcard Women’s Imaginarium: Decolonizing the Western Gaze

15 OCTOBER 2022 • By Salma Ahmad Caller
The Postcard Women’s Imaginarium: Decolonizing the Western Gaze
Essays

Translating Walter Benjamin on Berlin, a German-Arabic Journey

15 SEPTEMBER 2022 • By Ahmed Farouk
Translating Walter Benjamin on Berlin, a German-Arabic Journey
Art & Photography

Two Women Artists Dialogue with Berlin and the Biennale

15 SEPTEMBER 2022 • By Viola Shafik
Two Women Artists Dialogue with Berlin and the Biennale
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”
Featured excerpt

Libyan Stories from the novel “Bread on Uncle Milad’s Table”

18 JULY 2022 • By Mohammed Alnaas, Rana Asfour
Libyan Stories from the novel “Bread on Uncle Milad’s Table”
Fiction

Where to Now, Ya Asfoura?—a story by Sarah AlKahly-Mills

15 JULY 2022 • By Sarah AlKahly-Mills
Where to Now, Ya Asfoura?—a story by Sarah AlKahly-Mills
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”
Essays

“Disappearance/Muteness”—Tales from a Life in Translation

11 JULY 2022 • By Ayelet Tsabari
“Disappearance/Muteness”—Tales from a Life in Translation
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

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
Essays

Can the Bilingual Speak?

15 MAY 2022 • By Anton Shammas
Can the Bilingual Speak?
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
Columns

Torsheedeh: The Significance of Being a Sour Iranian Woman

15 APRIL 2022 • By Parisa Parnian
Torsheedeh: The Significance of Being a Sour Iranian Woman
Art & Photography

Ghosts of Beirut: a Review of “displaced”

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

Silver Stories from Artist Micaela Amateau Amato

15 FEBRUARY 2022 • By Micaela Amateau Amato
Silver Stories from Artist Micaela Amateau Amato
Essays

Taming the Immigrant: Musings of a Writer in Exile

15 JANUARY 2022 • By Ahmed Naji, Rana Asfour
Taming the Immigrant: Musings of a Writer in Exile
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
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
Beirut

Sudden Journeys: The Villa Salameh Bequest

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

From Jerusalem to a Kingdom by the Sea

29 NOVEMBER 2021 • By Rana Asfour
From Jerusalem to a Kingdom by the Sea
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
Featured excerpt

Memoirs of a Militant, My Years in the Khiam Women’s Prison

15 OCTOBER 2021 • By Nawal Qasim Baidoun
Memoirs of a Militant, My Years in the Khiam Women’s Prison
Art & Photography

Displaced: From Beirut to Los Angeles to Beirut

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

My Amazigh Indigeneity (the Bifurcated Roots of a Native Moroccan)

15 SEPTEMBER 2021 • By Brahim El Guabli
My Amazigh Indigeneity (the Bifurcated Roots of a Native Moroccan)
Latest Reviews

Beginnings, the Life & Times of “Slim” aka Menouar Merabtene

15 AUGUST 2021 • By Menouar Merabtene
Beginnings, the Life & Times of “Slim” aka Menouar Merabtene
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
Columns

The Semantics of Gaza, War and Truth

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

War Diary: The End of Innocence

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

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

9 MAY 2021 • By Rana Asfour
Columns

Memory and the Assassination of Lokman Slim

14 MARCH 2021 • By Claire Launchbury
Memory and the Assassination of Lokman Slim
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 3 • Racism & Identity

Why is Arabic Provoking such Controversy in France?

15 NOVEMBER 2020 • By Melissa Chemam
Why is Arabic Provoking such Controversy in France?
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

An Outsider’s Long Goodbye

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Annia Ciezadlo
An Outsider’s Long Goodbye
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

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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