RAED RAFEI In the living room of my parents’ home in Tripoli, Lebanon, an elaborate family tree is displayed in a golden frame. It is a constant reminder of a fatalistic vision of life’s ultimate purpose: reproduction. Males are depicted as branches; females as leaves.
HISHAM BUSTANI It is May 2019, and at the moment there is a revolution in Sudan, and people, among them a great number of authors, have taken to the streets and squares, demanding the fall of a regime that has—like many of its “siblings”—weighed down on and repressed them for decades.
A love of mine took my photograph one Sunday afternoon in a gallery in Dakar: My face is buried in ripples of tissuey white paper. I am leaning forward, and though you can’t see them, I am blinking my eyes. I am feeling the softness of this artwork we are not meant to touch.