An Oral History of New York’s Arab and Muslim Community After 9/11
What kind of exhibit on revolutionaries would it be without a living Palestinian? The rub of course is there are so few of you.
India Home offers South Asian seniors a place to be themselves
The other night my love turned his body to mine. This life, he said, is my heaven.
When she opened her door the lived-in smell burst out like gases from a can: fish sauce and charred meat, mildew and a stronger concentration of the musk he had noticed when he got close enough to her body.
Without rice, there is nothing. And without the pot, there is no rice.
Q: Why the impulse to traverse old habits? / A: I believe in the refusal to explain.
Grappling with the burden of keeping a legacy alive in the face of occupation and erasure
“I feel like my writing is always either at a micro-cellular level or a drone level. There’s this constant cycle between being way too close and things feeling surreal, or pulled way out and things also feeling a little surreal.”
I turned around to check whether the llama was still there. There he was, as fluffy and clueless as before, lashes waving as he sat on a tattered red mat thrown on the aisle.
You desire a final frame / that suits and comforts, / a framing that supersedes / a death denied
“What people say about the patriarchy hurting men is true. Men benefit from it, but it also hurts them.”
Feminist organizers and writers reflect about what we have learned from one another about care, community, and survival in continuing to build solidarities towards collective liberation
Women like my mother don’t post their lives online. Often, their stories remain untold and undocumented.
“What debts—monetary, emotional, filial—did my parents have that I’ve inherited?”
“I wanted to turn to actual living language—and reveal, through poetry, the contradictions or erasures or sometimes comic possibilities imposed by different texts.”
after 9/11 / cold silver stretches / across a slate gray table / a room tucked in an airport terminal / you’ve never heard of.
What kind of exhibit on revolutionaries would it be without a living Palestinian? The rub of course is there are so few of you.
“I feel like my writing is always either at a micro-cellular level or a drone level. There’s this constant cycle between being way too close and things feeling surreal, or pulled way out and things also feeling a little surreal.”
I turned around to check whether the llama was still there. There he was, as fluffy and clueless as before, lashes waving as he sat on a tattered red mat thrown on the aisle.
India Home offers South Asian seniors a place to be themselves
You desire a final frame / that suits and comforts, / a framing that supersedes / a death denied
“What people say about the patriarchy hurting men is true. Men benefit from it, but it also hurts them.”
The other night my love turned his body to mine. This life, he said, is my heaven.
Feminist organizers and writers reflect about what we have learned from one another about care, community, and survival in continuing to build solidarities towards collective liberation
When she opened her door the lived-in smell burst out like gases from a can: fish sauce and charred meat, mildew and a stronger concentration of the musk he had noticed when he got close enough to her body.
Women like my mother don’t post their lives online. Often, their stories remain untold and undocumented.
Without rice, there is nothing. And without the pot, there is no rice.
“What debts—monetary, emotional, filial—did my parents have that I’ve inherited?”
Q: Why the impulse to traverse old habits? / A: I believe in the refusal to explain.
“I wanted to turn to actual living language—and reveal, through poetry, the contradictions or erasures or sometimes comic possibilities imposed by different texts.”
Grappling with the burden of keeping a legacy alive in the face of occupation and erasure
after 9/11 / cold silver stretches / across a slate gray table / a room tucked in an airport terminal / you’ve never heard of.