Islands // Young the Giant
When no one’s home, do they feel cold on your bones, All the years I miss your warmth-
Have you missed my warmth?
To Build A Home // The Cinematic Orchestra
By the cracks of the skin I climbed to the top, I climbed the tree to see the world
When the gusts came around to blow me down, I held on as tightly as you held onto me
I held on as tightly as you held onto me
Your image is engraved
on the face of my watch
It is engraved on each of the hands
It is etched on the weeks
My time is no longer mine
it is you.
— Nizar Qabbani (Between Us)
Not one alive, not one
Mumbled someone near my head
I cried out with all my might
I am not dead, I am not dead
But no one heard me
My words had no sound.
from No One Waits for the Train by Waqas Khwaja
This volume of poems offers a record of multiple displacements, some voluntary, others forced and violent, in a period when the Indian sub-continent labors through the travails of partition and provides witness to the contentious legacy of those intemperate times.
We hunger for these stories not simply because they address the religious and social divides of a time past but because they engage with painful contemporary realities…We need these stories then to put to rest the ghost trains that wail in our sleep.
— The Partitions of Memory, Suvir Kaul
Hiroshi Sugimoto, Ionian Sea, Santa Cesarea, 1991
It would be the simplest thing to say, my homeland is where I was born. But when you returned, you found nothing. What does that mean? It would be the simplest thing to say, my homeland is where I will die. But you could die anywhere, or on the border between two places. What does that mean? After a while the question will become harder. Why did you leave? Why did you leave? For twenty years you have been asking, why did they leave? Leaving is not a negation of the homeland, but it does turn the problem into a question. Do not write a history now. When you do that, you leave the past behind, and what is required is to call the past to account. Do not write a history except that of your wounds. Do not write a history except that of your exile. You are here - here, where you were born. And where longing will lead you to death. So, what is homeland?
— Mahmoud Darwish, Journal of an Ordinary Grief (via yesyes)
Beirut-born Palestinian artist Abdulrahman Katanani makes art out of Sabra refugee camp misery. With juvenile silhouettes cut in zinco and corrugated tin, he tells the story of children as sharp as barbed wire.
See more photos here.