by Mahru Elahi
After Israel bombed Tehran in the summer of 2025, thousands of urbanites fled to the Alborz Mountains. Amu offered food to the shaken arrivals, going hungry when there were the inevitable shortages. Eight months later, the U.S. and Israel brought war to Damavand: to late winter snowpack, icy rivers, and Amu’s honeybees, clustering for warmth in the apiary Amu built. My family has spoken to Amu only once since February 28, and we haven’t told Baba about the war.
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This absence, like the blank spaces in Zan newspaper, contains the potential for liberation. This absence leaves her films on the verge of collapse, but in doing so, it forces us to hold them together ourselves, and gives us space into which we project our desires, our visions of freedom. The silences in which the soul can take refuge.
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by Sanad Tabbaa
We followed the mosque motorcade to the graveyard. The first thing I saw when I stepped out of the car was a rusted, burned-out barrel. On the ground next to it was a sun-bleached container for a pair of underwear, one of those plasticky cardboard ones with a buff guy on the front. They’d already mostly buried him. It was hot and they wanted to be done as quickly as possible.
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