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Jiddo, I have lost count of the days. I have become haunted. Hunted. You refused the nationality and I refused the country. What if it’s someone I love next? I think of the pink living room; the ghosts who watch. I never thought before of those who made me until judgment sought its claim into me. It was a party, and I woke up crying for my brother. Laugh with me, I know you’re running late. The Palestinian sitting in his words more than ever before. I dream of my dead in Arabic. I dream of my dead in Arabic and hear all the dead of us echoing in the lilts of their voices. A man in my flat laughs at my accent. I am made spoiled, princess, bourgeois. All Nablus, waiting for my lost crown. We both know he’ll still kiss me in between the static. I go to your grave and find nothing. I go to my brother’s grave and find a well. I go to the land and find relief. I go to country and find self. Jiddo, it has been so long since I slept in the centre of violence. Jiddo, do you remember the years I begged to go back? The years when I didn’t? What is identity but a card? At a panel, they are fraught with third-worlds and I am simmering, a freshly slaughtered lamb, the rage roasting me tender. Arab with a passport. I turned my back to empire at fifteen. I fled at nineteen. Amman laughs, what do you mean you can’t talk to foreigners? All I taste is blood in my mouth constantly. I will die and still taste a drop of metallic; the hatred turned shrapnel. Jiddo, I have never not known myself and yet I want to tell you I keep reading Basel all over again. Six months. Two hours. I have my found my answers. Despair is manufactured. My body still hanging on the baptism, dreaming of tearing the eye of the river open again. I demand a witness. I do not care about foreigners, their eyes, their mouths. Let war wash on their statehood; eradicate the button. They can never be as brave as you. Jiddo, I still love you. Jiddo, I understand now. Jiddo, what am I to do with all this rage?



leena aboutaleb is an Egyptian and Palestinian writer. She is asking you to commit to material and tangible solidarity with the liberation of Palestine, from every fracture and ability you possess. Make the monsters untenable for a new world to finally kiss the sun and our children in liberation. She’ll see you in the next world over, fresh bread on the kitchen table.
Current Issue
10 Jun 2024

In summer, the crack on the windowpane would align perfectly with the horizon, right around 2 p.m.
airstrikes littering the litanies of my existence
I turn to where they are not, / and I nod to them, and they to me.
Issue 9 Jun 2024
Phonetics of Draconic Languages 
A Tour of the Blue Palace 
A Tale of Moths and Home (of bones and breathing) (of extrinsic restrictive lung disease) 
By Salt, By Sea, By Light of Stars 
Critical Friends Episode 11: Boundaries in Genre 
Friday: The House that Horror Built by Christina Henry 
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Friday: Utopia Beyond Capitalism in Contemporary Literature: A Commons Poetics by Raphael Kabo 
Issue 3 Jun 2024
Issue 27 May 2024
Issue 20 May 2024
Issue 13 May 2024
Issue 6 May 2024
Issue 29 Apr 2024
Issue 15 Apr 2024
By: Ana Hurtado
Art by: delila
Issue 8 Apr 2024
Issue 1 Apr 2024
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