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The truth is, I don’t believe all that much in writing. Starting with my own. Being a writer is pleasant—no, pleasant isn’t the word—it’s an activity that has its share of amusing moments, but I know of other things that are even more amusing, amusing in the same way that literature is for me. Holding up banks, for example. Or directing movies. Or being a gigolo. Or being a child again and playing on a more or less apocalyptic soccer team. Unfortunately, the child grows up, the bank robber is killed, the director runs out of money, the gigolo gets sick and then there’s no other choice but to write. For me, the word writing is the exact opposite of the word waiting. Instead of waiting, there is writing.—Roberto Bolaño

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Cairo by Piri Reis, 16th century. Source: Wikipedia

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Joseph Schreiber: And I Will Tell You Something

You said: I’m still here. I just don’t know what to say. But two weeks later, you were gone. And now I sit, words turned stale upon the page. Seems I’ve been here for months, rending sentences into syllables. Senseless. Torn and patched in vain.

I’m still here and you’re still gone.

You said: I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to live. But we didn’t want to hear, for fear your fear would unmask our own. We left you to your silent pain—let it erode the edges of your reserves, like waves, ceaseless, beating the shore—bruising, breaking your brash, butch swagger. Leaving fragments and splinters of you.

Bewildered, bipolar & blue.

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Zachary Prong: “Young men accused me of being an American spy”

I made these photos in Cairo during the summer of 2015. The news coming out of Egypt at that time was mostly violent; “Car bomb attack kills Egypt’s top public prosecutor”, “Islamic State ‘behind blast’ at Italian consulate in Cairo”, “Croatian hostage beheaded”, “Deadly attacks hit Egypt’s Sinai”. I didn’t capture the facts of these events but they loomed large over how I experienced the city.160821-cairo11

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Five Poems in English by Mina Nagy

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Elliott Erwitt, New York City, 1977. Source: magnumphotos.com

Pick-up Lines

I can only relate poems to dreams,

that’s why the last three years

I had a few of them

though I’d already denounced myself as a poet;

because escaping from consciousness

is like escaping from the self,

it doesn’t go past skin’s borders.

I’ve counted masturbation sessions as though counting sheep,

without calculating mean or median

or any statistical tricks.

I wanted to say, Love you,

but it came out, Fuck you.

Maybe we can have dinner some time?

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كارول صنصور: في المشمش | النص الكامل

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Omar Imam, from “Live, Love, Refugee”. Source: arabdocphotography.org

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مدخل
إشارة مرور
ملصقات
جدار فصل
قصر جاسر
ملحمة أمل
مخيم عزة
خبز
زبالة أمم متحدة لتشغيل لاجئين
شارع جديد
حجارة بناء
حصمة، رمل، جرّافة
جرافيتي
سيارات سيارات سيارات
مطاعم مطاعم مطاعم
رهبان دير
حراس مهد
بوليس سياحي
عنف
أمن
قصر رئاسة
بنك
شمس
ليمون
بيت

استمر في القراءة

Carol Sansour: In the Time of the Apricots (The Complete Text)

Greek Orthodox service in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem

Christopher Anderson, Greek Orthodox service in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, 2007.

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Way in

Traffic lights

Posters

Separation wall

Jacir Palace

Amal Butchery

Azza Camp

Bread

United Nations Relief and Works Agency rubbish

New street

Building stones

Pebbles Sand Bulldozer

Graffiti

Cars cars cars

Restaurants restaurants restaurants

Monastery monks

Nativity guards

Tourist police

Violence

Security

Presidential palace

Bank

Sun

Lemon

Home

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Seth Messinger: Laâbi, Maghreb, Anfas

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Source: diptykblog.com

Olivia C. Harrison and Teresa Villa-Ignacio’s Souffles-Anfas: A Critical Anthology from the Moroccan Journal of Culture and Politics, published by Stanford University Press this year, is a new way into the Middle East and North Africa

There would be little point in writing a conventional review of Souffles-Anfas. A collection such as this is about far more than the curatorial choices made by the editors, and should be celebrated simply for existing at all. To that end praise and congratulations should flow to the editors and to Stanford University Press for backing the publication. There can be no more apt reason for university presses to exist than to publish manifestoes and articles from a quintessential little magazine that endured less than seven years before being suppressed and shut down by an increasingly intolerant Moroccan government. On the other hand one of the journal editors recounts that the need to write so afflicted a contributor that he submitted a short story to an automobile club magazine simply to have an audience. Any collection of writings about the Middle East and North Africa that includes such a story demands an even larger, international audience.

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Pauls Toutonghi: The Gospel of Judas

Caravaggio’s "The Taking of Christ". Source: newyorker.com

Caravaggio’s “The Taking of Christ”. Source: newyorker.com

He is arrogant.

Like a Jerusalem oak—growing in the most narrow fissure, the most meager soil—that was his arrogance, at first. There was almost nothing to feed it. It was thin and pale and stood apart from the vast landscape of him—a few dry green leaves that were, at most, a distraction, a distraction from that great and beautiful emptiness. Because that’s what was most remarkable about him—that emptiness—vast and open and almost unimaginable.

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