The Involuntary Misandrist Marlowe Granados It is perfectly fine to complain about misogyny and to not let anyone make you feel bad about it.
Rich Moms, Poor Moms Rafia Zakaria With Samantha’s power and Melinda’s money, poor women will be saved.
What Makes Foreign Policy “Feminist”? Rafia Zakaria Germany’s leaders talk about a “feminist foreign policy” that requires more armaments.
The Involuntary Misandrist Marlowe Granados It is perfectly fine to complain about misogyny and to not let anyone make you feel bad about it.
Rich Moms, Poor Moms Rafia Zakaria With Samantha’s power and Melinda’s money, poor women will be saved.
What Makes Foreign Policy “Feminist”? Rafia Zakaria Germany’s leaders talk about a “feminist foreign policy” that requires more armaments.
Editions of You Milo Nesbitt In every dream home a heartache/And every step I take/Takes me further from heaven.
The Woman without Qualities Mariah Kreutter Mieko Kawakami investigates feminine identity in the absence of consumption.
Editions of You Milo Nesbitt In every dream home a heartache/And every step I take/Takes me further from heaven.
The Woman without Qualities Mariah Kreutter Mieko Kawakami investigates feminine identity in the absence of consumption.
Universal Basic Automobility Dan Albert Reducing inequality means ensuring that every low-income person has a car.
Universal Basic Automobility Dan Albert Reducing inequality means ensuring that every low-income person has a car.
Yours Truly, Adonis Sophie Kemp We didn’t like thinking about that day. A man isn’t meant to remember his own birth.
Yours Truly, Adonis Sophie Kemp We didn’t like thinking about that day. A man isn’t meant to remember his own birth.
True Colors Luise Mörke Aura has become one of the internet’s favorite ways of rendering personality.
True Colors Luise Mörke Aura has become one of the internet’s favorite ways of rendering personality.
A Fabric of Surfaces Victoria Baena Celia Paul’s Letters to Gwen John reaches across the years to pose questions of art, love, and self-possession.
A Fabric of Surfaces Victoria Baena Celia Paul’s Letters to Gwen John reaches across the years to pose questions of art, love, and self-possession.
El Alto Chronicles Ruxandra Guidi Quya Reyna is a young Aymara writer who casts a light urban indigeneity in Bolivia.
El Alto Chronicles Ruxandra Guidi Quya Reyna is a young Aymara writer who casts a light urban indigeneity in Bolivia.
For God or the Moroccan Boy? Jacob Israël de Haan Jacob Israël de Haan explored the intersection of queer desire and spiritual belief.
For God or the Moroccan Boy? Jacob Israël de Haan Jacob Israël de Haan explored the intersection of queer desire and spiritual belief.
War by Another Name Joshua Craze Sanctions achieve little politically, while bringing great harm to civilians.
The Ukrainian Appeal Rafia Zakaria Zelensky's speech to Congress asked the United States to save his country.
Inside Russia’s War on Dissent Katie Marie Davies From the streets to social media, speaking out is criminalized.
Not-So-Great Powers Rafia Zakaria A military power moves in to subjugate a smaller country—when have we seen that before?
War by Another Name Joshua Craze Sanctions achieve little politically, while bringing great harm to civilians.
The Ukrainian Appeal Rafia Zakaria Zelensky's speech to Congress asked the United States to save his country.
Inside Russia’s War on Dissent Katie Marie Davies From the streets to social media, speaking out is criminalized.
Not-So-Great Powers Rafia Zakaria A military power moves in to subjugate a smaller country—when have we seen that before?
No Days Off Matt Murphy When workplace tracking technologies become less invasive, their use is normalized.
Tricks of the Trade Jack Hanson In Emily Hall’s “The Longcut,” an artist prevaricates endlessly about the nature of her work.
No Days Off Matt Murphy When workplace tracking technologies become less invasive, their use is normalized.
Tricks of the Trade Jack Hanson In Emily Hall’s “The Longcut,” an artist prevaricates endlessly about the nature of her work.
Two Poems Zakaria Mohammed I. I caught a glimpse of you as I ran. I had no time to stop and kiss your hand. The world was chasing me down like I was a thief and it was impossible for me to stop. If I had stopped I’d have been killed. But I caught a glimpse of you: your hand a stem of narcissus in a glass of water, your mouth unbuttoned, and your hair a soaring bird of prey. I caught a glimpse of you but I had no matches with me to light a bonfire and dance around it. The world was failing me, abandoning me, so I didn’t even wave at you. One day the world will settle down, the crazed cable channels will stop broadcasting, and those that hound me will disperse so I can return to that road, the one where I caught a glimpse of you. I’ll find you in that same chair: your hand a stem of narcissus, your smile a bird of prey, and your heart an apricot blossom. And there, with you, beneath the shade of your apricot, I’ll tear down the tent of my orphanhood and build my home. —from Kushtban II. Night is a generous friend. All things loosen their vines over my head. My beloveds are seated around me as if we were at a celebration. My beloveds who have passed. My beloveds who are here, and beloveds yet to come. And death is a watchdog chained at the gate. Only the Khamaseen wind beats angrily at the door. Khamaseen is a loathsome neighbor; I raise a wall between us, turn out the lights between us. I am happy, singing like a rod of ephedra, crying out like a raptor. Do not believe my words. Don’t reach out to the vines in the darkness. Night is a pact of horrors. Ten birds sleep in the tree, but one anxiously circles over the house. And as you know, one bird suffices to destroy an entire celebration, one match to burn down a civilization. The meal was cold. I rinsed my mouth out afterwards with Khamaseen, and washed my hands with lichen. If there was any use in weeping I would have wept before you all. But weeping requires more energy than we possess, so I will sing for you like tender Saba wind, I’ll sing in the vernacular of a young basil stem: night is a stone of amber. Night is a pact of marvels. —from Alanda (Ephedra) Read more from our series by Palestinian poets.
Exam Sheikha Hlewa My mother’s lessons are too late.After all we’ve lived through—the years she countsin precise concurrence with the Nakbaand the ones I count while I bite my tongue—she insists on lecturing me, word by word, all at once.She shows no consideration for my chronic distractionnor for the chasm of years between us,the urbanity that tamed the nomad in meand glossed the margins of my language.She repeats lessons with the crueltyof a teacher whose retirement has been delayed.She searches for her stick under her arms,cannot find it,so she pounds on the wooden deskTo hell with any man who makes you cry, you understand?and there’s no bell to rescue mebefore the exam. —Haifa Read more from our series by Palestinian poets.
Pressure and Escape Mark Muhannad Ayyash In Palestine, nature and poetry offer a respite from constant pressure.
Mahmoud Maya Abu Al-Hayyat Mahmoud could have been our son.I’d have objected to the nameand, for family reasons, you’d have insisted on it.We could have bought him a crib with a blue quiltand hung spinning musical animalsto coax him to sleep,could have stayed up all night for his first tooth,experimenting with various formulasbecause my breasts couldn’t produce enough milkfor his voracious appetite.And with a new Nikon camera,we could have captured his first step.And his verbal skills would have wiped the floorwith your niece’s skills, of course.We could have disagreed over his elementary school:nothing wrong with public education, you’d have said,and I’d have demanded a private one.You’d have turned your face toward meas you counted our few remaining dollarsto my wailing about balancing the budget.We would have been happy,his first school bag in one hand,his other hand waving to the neighbor’s girlbefore waving to us.His teacher would’ve complainedas teachers are wont to do,and we’d have called her names for her blindnessto the genius of our only son. Yes,we would have bought him a battery-operated car,built him a paper plane that doesn’t fly,maintained his teeth white,flipped his collar for coolness,and he’d have loved me more than youbecause of issues beyond my grasp:your jealousy would’ve grown mysterious.And when his voice changed he’d hate us bothand love the neighbor’s girl more.Rumination would have haunted usfor hours at night. Our whispersadvising us to be patient, let go, observefrom a distance. Then you’d have lost your witsover his first cigarette, the hidden packin the laundry room, but his tremulous voicewould prevent you from slapping himwith an open palm. You’d have forgiven him,you’re kind like that. He’d only smoked in secret.But the first rock he’d have thrownat soldiers at the checkpoint,to raise his heroic stock in Manal’s eyes,would have declared war in our house:biting followed by flying slippers.Nightly debates wouldn’t have helped usto core solutions. I’d have to carry himbetween my teeth, fly himfrom one neighborhood to another to shield him.But he’d run away.That would be who he’d always been.A misguided kid who saps the heart and soul,that’s who he was. Still youwere martyred eight yearsbefore he was born, and he was martyredeight years after you were gone. —Jerusalem Read more from our series by Palestinian poets. From You Can Be the Last Leaf by Maya Abu Al-Hayyat, translated by Fady Joudah (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2022). Copyright © 2022 by Fady Joudah. Reprinted with permission from Milkweed Editions.
Two Poems Zakaria Mohammed I. I caught a glimpse of you as I ran. I had no time to stop and kiss your hand. The world was chasing me down like I was a thief and it was impossible for me to stop. If I had stopped I’d have been killed. But I caught a glimpse of you: your hand a stem of narcissus in a glass of water, your mouth unbuttoned, and your hair a soaring bird of prey. I caught a glimpse of you but I had no matches with me to light a bonfire and dance around it. The world was failing me, abandoning me, so I didn’t even wave at you. One day the world will settle down, the crazed cable channels will stop broadcasting, and those that hound me will disperse so I can return to that road, the one where I caught a glimpse of you. I’ll find you in that same chair: your hand a stem of narcissus, your smile a bird of prey, and your heart an apricot blossom. And there, with you, beneath the shade of your apricot, I’ll tear down the tent of my orphanhood and build my home. —from Kushtban II. Night is a generous friend. All things loosen their vines over my head. My beloveds are seated around me as if we were at a celebration. My beloveds who have passed. My beloveds who are here, and beloveds yet to come. And death is a watchdog chained at the gate. Only the Khamaseen wind beats angrily at the door. Khamaseen is a loathsome neighbor; I raise a wall between us, turn out the lights between us. I am happy, singing like a rod of ephedra, crying out like a raptor. Do not believe my words. Don’t reach out to the vines in the darkness. Night is a pact of horrors. Ten birds sleep in the tree, but one anxiously circles over the house. And as you know, one bird suffices to destroy an entire celebration, one match to burn down a civilization. The meal was cold. I rinsed my mouth out afterwards with Khamaseen, and washed my hands with lichen. If there was any use in weeping I would have wept before you all. But weeping requires more energy than we possess, so I will sing for you like tender Saba wind, I’ll sing in the vernacular of a young basil stem: night is a stone of amber. Night is a pact of marvels. —from Alanda (Ephedra) Read more from our series by Palestinian poets.
Exam Sheikha Hlewa My mother’s lessons are too late.After all we’ve lived through—the years she countsin precise concurrence with the Nakbaand the ones I count while I bite my tongue—she insists on lecturing me, word by word, all at once.She shows no consideration for my chronic distractionnor for the chasm of years between us,the urbanity that tamed the nomad in meand glossed the margins of my language.She repeats lessons with the crueltyof a teacher whose retirement has been delayed.She searches for her stick under her arms,cannot find it,so she pounds on the wooden deskTo hell with any man who makes you cry, you understand?and there’s no bell to rescue mebefore the exam. —Haifa Read more from our series by Palestinian poets.
Pressure and Escape Mark Muhannad Ayyash In Palestine, nature and poetry offer a respite from constant pressure.
Mahmoud Maya Abu Al-Hayyat Mahmoud could have been our son.I’d have objected to the nameand, for family reasons, you’d have insisted on it.We could have bought him a crib with a blue quiltand hung spinning musical animalsto coax him to sleep,could have stayed up all night for his first tooth,experimenting with various formulasbecause my breasts couldn’t produce enough milkfor his voracious appetite.And with a new Nikon camera,we could have captured his first step.And his verbal skills would have wiped the floorwith your niece’s skills, of course.We could have disagreed over his elementary school:nothing wrong with public education, you’d have said,and I’d have demanded a private one.You’d have turned your face toward meas you counted our few remaining dollarsto my wailing about balancing the budget.We would have been happy,his first school bag in one hand,his other hand waving to the neighbor’s girlbefore waving to us.His teacher would’ve complainedas teachers are wont to do,and we’d have called her names for her blindnessto the genius of our only son. Yes,we would have bought him a battery-operated car,built him a paper plane that doesn’t fly,maintained his teeth white,flipped his collar for coolness,and he’d have loved me more than youbecause of issues beyond my grasp:your jealousy would’ve grown mysterious.And when his voice changed he’d hate us bothand love the neighbor’s girl more.Rumination would have haunted usfor hours at night. Our whispersadvising us to be patient, let go, observefrom a distance. Then you’d have lost your witsover his first cigarette, the hidden packin the laundry room, but his tremulous voicewould prevent you from slapping himwith an open palm. You’d have forgiven him,you’re kind like that. He’d only smoked in secret.But the first rock he’d have thrownat soldiers at the checkpoint,to raise his heroic stock in Manal’s eyes,would have declared war in our house:biting followed by flying slippers.Nightly debates wouldn’t have helped usto core solutions. I’d have to carry himbetween my teeth, fly himfrom one neighborhood to another to shield him.But he’d run away.That would be who he’d always been.A misguided kid who saps the heart and soul,that’s who he was. Still youwere martyred eight yearsbefore he was born, and he was martyredeight years after you were gone. —Jerusalem Read more from our series by Palestinian poets. From You Can Be the Last Leaf by Maya Abu Al-Hayyat, translated by Fady Joudah (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2022). Copyright © 2022 by Fady Joudah. Reprinted with permission from Milkweed Editions.
Hard to Be a God Joshua Craze A new history of deification suggests that political power is always mythological.
A Violent Enterprise Adewale Maja-Pearce British colonialism casts a long shadow over modern Nigeria.
Hard to Be a God Joshua Craze A new history of deification suggests that political power is always mythological.
A Violent Enterprise Adewale Maja-Pearce British colonialism casts a long shadow over modern Nigeria.
Meeting the Moment in Philadelphia Jess McAllen Grassroots union drives and America’s largest labor federation collide in Philly.
Working Landscapes John Merrick Barry Hines’s pastoral fiction offers an antidote to the British country house novel.
Meeting the Moment in Philadelphia Jess McAllen Grassroots union drives and America’s largest labor federation collide in Philly.
Working Landscapes John Merrick Barry Hines’s pastoral fiction offers an antidote to the British country house novel.
Everything’s Great When You’re Downtown Nicholas Russell The short afterlife of Tony Hsieh’s Las Vegas.
Sweet Little Lies Elias Rodriques, Clinton Williamson The scam is big business, and big business is a scam by another name.
Everything’s Great When You’re Downtown Nicholas Russell The short afterlife of Tony Hsieh’s Las Vegas.
Sweet Little Lies Elias Rodriques, Clinton Williamson The scam is big business, and big business is a scam by another name.
Despite All His Cage J.W. McCormack Nicolas Cage’s career is a categorical triumph of style over substance.
Our Man in Hollywood Joel Whitney With help from the CIA, Joseph Mankiewicz took a stand against “anti-Americanism.”
Palais Intrigue James Wham For all its cash-flashing and celebrity worship, Cannes still offers moments of possibility.
Weak at the Knees James Wham “Ahed’s Knee” has little to say about the gravest crimes of the state it sets out to criticize.
Silver Screen Sphinxes Christina Newland How Greta Garbo and Buster Keaton invented celebrity privacy.
Despite All His Cage J.W. McCormack Nicolas Cage’s career is a categorical triumph of style over substance.
Our Man in Hollywood Joel Whitney With help from the CIA, Joseph Mankiewicz took a stand against “anti-Americanism.”
Palais Intrigue James Wham For all its cash-flashing and celebrity worship, Cannes still offers moments of possibility.
Weak at the Knees James Wham “Ahed’s Knee” has little to say about the gravest crimes of the state it sets out to criticize.
Silver Screen Sphinxes Christina Newland How Greta Garbo and Buster Keaton invented celebrity privacy.
