Letter from the Editor: Issue 23
February 10, 2024
Dear Readers:
The provocative contributions to this issue portray numerous facets and stages of revolutions. They address the futile and the routine, and encompass tiny stirrings and immense breakthroughs. They capture the reticence to engage when sparks of indignation fail to ignite, the anguish when slow shifts offer little reward, and the cautious exhilaration born when dissent-fueled plans are underway but lofty goals remain out of reach.
These works—dynamically spanning the spectrum of language and genre—are tributes to the magnitude of human emotion and labor involved in taking a stand and calling for change in a world plagued by violence. They teach us that the concept of revolution cannot be romanticized or oversimplified. It cannot be boiled down to a single dramatic shift that instantly sets fire to the oppressive. Revolutions can be unexpected, elusive, and sometimes many things at once. As Ghassan Kanafani expresses in the excerpt from Palestinian Resistance Literature Under Occupation, translated from Arabic by Amanda Batarseh, revolution is “propelled by the sharp tongues of nationalist singers and poets.” It happens when “One [thinks] to raise their head”—to borrow a gripping metaphor from Esraa El-Nemr’s poem, translated from Arabic by Rufaidah Gamal; or when “the tumult of the street … intrudes upon the quiet slumber”—as described by Isabelle Eberhardt in her short story, “Daughters of Casbah,” translated from French by Donald Mason.
But as Bahar Abdi says about her own audio-visual essay, “fragments of corporeal fragmentation, dismembering, or dis-membrane-ing,” resistance may involve “…the fragmented experience of an observer simultaneously present and absent.” Linked to the kind of ambivalence described by Abdi and portrayed in her captivating video is the fact that this issue contains numerous images of atrocities happening in reality—yet viewed virtually from behind a screen at home. This does not imply that the home has no role in revolutions. Priyam Bhattacharya’s visual series, “Loud Murmur,” offers windows into private spaces—where seeds are planted and flames are ignited—either while a figure gazes into a bathroom mirror or as members of a family gather around a table. But the phase of standing on the sidelines has to run its course. Lilly Morgan’s “First time around” exposes that very moment. In her stunning watercolor, the bloodied hand holding the phone becomes so shocked by a devastating scene that the trauma reaches digital critical mass and bursts through the Gorilla Glass barrier.
It came as no surprise that many of the works confront our distant complacency and the moments when we break free of it. Those pieces reflect an inherent truth about a world in which countless unprecedented horrors are idly witnessed from the comfort of home. Despite that all-too-common state of inertia, many citizens do stand up and take their causes to the streets. We are seeing this in real time through public outcry from citizens around the world who are demanding a permanent ceasefire in Gaza. Vyxz Vasquez and Nilufar Karimi’s haunting stamp-work series, “Veto,” delves into the question of whether those calls are adequate. By tirelessly imprinting the late Refaat Alareer’s heart-wrenching poem, “If I Must Die,” on artifacts symbolizing US complicity in Israel’s ongoing massacre of thousands of Palestinian civilians, their experimental translation shows us that the pressure applied must be substantial enough to reach the highest levels of power.
Revolutions come when hopelessness and idleness are translated into determination and motivation. But that’s just the beginning. The initial stimulation can only persevere when mass efforts are part of the equation. As Farshad Sonboldel suggests in his poignant line, auto-translated from Persian, “with every child who dies / a thousand emerge from the mouth of a wandering whale”—revolution happens when sorrow is converted into collective action. The well-meaning but fruitless efforts of the unavailing hero Ragab in Inaam Kachachi’s short story, translated from Arabic by Ibrahim Fawzy, show us that revolution cannot happen by “[threatening] major powers…with a hand in the pocket of trousers.” If Ragab had been fortunate enough to have poet Ahkmet Baitursynuly whispering in his ear instead of the corrupt autocratic ruler he works for, Ragab may have embraced the collective impulse in the phrase, “Treasure is easily found together,” written by Baitursynuly in “To My People,” the enlivening poem translated from Kazakh by Jake Zawlacki. The works in this issue insist that if society is to take on the injustices that persist in our world, it must be done through collectivity. A revolution can begin with one person—such as the stunning subject of Müjdat Hacıoğlu’s photo from Turkey’s 2013 Gezi Park Protests—but it requires numbers to succeed in resisting the shields of those enforcing the status quo.
In a sense, these poems, stories, paintings, and photographs are assorted episodes in a series about the many seasons and trials of engineering transformation. I use the word “episode” only metaphorically though, to steer clear of suggesting that we resume dwelling on the sidelines, gazing at screens. To revive the words of late jazz poet Gil Scott-Heron—who forewarned in syncopated rhythms alongside drums, bass, and flute that when the time comes for action—“You will not be able to stay home / You will not be able to plug in, turn on, and cop out / Because the revolution will not be televised / will not be televised / will not be televised / will not be televised … The revolution will be live.”
The selection process for this issue was particularly ardent and it was a privilege to engage in it with fellow editors Bahar Abdi, Nilufar Karimi, Olga Mikolaivna, Barışcan Özkuzey, Makenzie Read, Camille Uglow, and Vyxz Vasquez. I am in awe of the genuine love of literature and enthusiastic care for the craft that each of you brings to the table. I would also like to thank our faculty advisory board members, our web designer, Kevin Jang, and the language-specific editors for this issue, including Nina Zhiri, Elise Angioi, Daniel Ares-López, Barış Taşyakan, and Dennis Keen. Thank you, as well, to those who provided us with linguist and artist referrals, including Luis Martín-Cabrera, Rebecca Ingram, Lilya Kaganovsky, and Ertuğ Yıldırımcan. And last but far from least, I would like to express my gratitude to our faculty director, Amelia Glaser, for seeing in me the capacity to take on this role. As with every project that has had a profound impact on me, before beginning, I could scarcely envision what the road ahead would look like, but now after finishing, I am unable to imagine how the path behind me would have taken shape without it.
I am deeply appreciative of the talented contributors and dedicated readers who make this journal a lively interchange of languages and ideas.
In solidarity,
Reem Hazboun Taşyakan