After dinner, when Baba goes to wash up, I tug on Mama’s sleeve. “When you go,” I say, “how will I know who I am?”
Love will reinvent you. I am made from all the people who love me. I know exactly who I am. Why do you still believe we are made out of images and not hearts? Are we all martyrs? My brother will take seven. Only God can dissolve me. Only God can judge me.
I understand. This is a self-identified Male story. I claim this because sports taught me how to be a Male within its context. I wanted so badly, as a young man, to become that Male: an American Boy. Think, Estelle.*
If a call for a “no-state solution” is theoretically valid anywhere, the current situation in Palestine provides us with empirical verification that humanity benefits more from the absence of the state than from its existence.
Without the untranslatable the translatable is nonviable. The untranslatable, too, is a biologic imperative. At the gene level, an intron is a noncoding sequence that indicates where the translatable sequence is. And the untranslatable is a cosmic imperative as well. The Arabic dark matter with which English light seems unwilling to interact.
Don’t we all move and imagine
if we stopped someplace, we never would?
Don’t we all move and imagine
if we stopped someplace, we never would?
“Postmortem,” an excerpt from Sarah Cypher’s novel The Skin and Its Girl, invites the reader into a mindset where departures from realism enable new linguistic maneuvers, such as subverting calcified stereotypes of Arabs and Arabic speakers in American supremacist culture.
An inventive, familial relationship with language is part of “Wahmi,” an excerpt from Key K. Bird’s in-progress novel, Conjoined States. Bird situates us in the prose: “I didn’t know how deeply cultural my family’s usage was, the oaths and the swearing alike, until I started to read fiction by Arab writers.”
In “On the Other End of Translation” and “On Sunday Night I am Tired of Proving I Deserve Languages,” Elina Katrin, one of Mizna editors and the Tongues Untethered folio curator, explores how poetic form can enhance linguistic dichotomy, question the expectation of fluency, and present languages—Arabic and Russian—as something lived and experienced within the body and outside it.
janan alexandra’s “Come From,” “Learning to Write in Arabic,” and “Arabic Abecedarian” take us to a language-place full of questions and paradox, presence and absence, intimacy and estrangement all at once. Illuminating these contradictions and the ways they exist simultaneously is a unifying seam that runs across all three poems.
We exist within an indispensable asset—language. Sooner or later though, writers who belong to multiple tongues, cultures, and heritages come across a curiosity: how to break away from English and honor our ancestry through the plurality language asks of us. In this folio, four writers of SWANA heritage —janan alexandra, Key K. Bird, Sarah Cypher, and Elina Katrin—share their strategies for doing just that.
this poem
suffocates on my tongue, one of the many
tongues of the executioner
Not yet sunset,
the porches keep
their broad hips
turned toward evening,
To mark the end of National Poetry Month, column editor Layla Faraj offers closing thoughts on the why and how of the editorial project.