Essays and Features

 

The recent attacks on the Church of Mar Elias in Al-Dweilaa on June 22, 2025 during Divine Liturgy left at least 25 dead and 63 injured. Perhaps Syrians have become accustomed to hearing such tragedy in the news, for every month a new story of blood, violence, and climbing death tolls appears, the massacres on the Syrian coast still a fresh wound on top of the losses suffered in Al-Dweilaa. Abeer Dagher Esber’s impassioned response to the attacks in her essay, “A Prophet of Fire… Consumed by Our Zero-Sum Conflicts,”* is an unflinching criticism of Syria’s problems. The attack on the Church of Mar Elias is a "wound to the spiritual memory of Syria and to the symbolism of the saint whose name the church bears," she writes, adding, "It is a bloody irony that the place named after the ‘one who raised the dead’ should be blown up by someone who worships death, sees the Other as heresy, and life as merely a path toward a delusional glory."

 

I grew up in Hazmièh, a small town east of Beirut, Lebanon's capital, during the early 1960s. Our rented apartment was situated near a modest multi-unit residential building, known as the Wadih El Safi building, named after the celebrated Lebanese singer who owned it. At the time, Wadih El Safi (1921-2013) was renowned for his wealth and fame, a reputation that endured after I immigrated to and settled in the United States. Wadih El Safi's later life is notable for his declaration of bankruptcy just a year before his death. He attributes his financial troubles to a monopoly contract he signed with Rotana, a Saudi Arabian record label and the music division of the Rotana Media Group.

 

I feel an affinity with Khalil al-Neimi, the author and novelist. Like him, I left my country, Lebanon, in 1972, and often thought about what I left behind. I gradually lost the desire to return, and later, after making a short visit back, I gave up on the idea altogether after being away for 38 years. Neimi and I differ on why it took us a long time to return (for me, 38 years, and for him, 50 years). It has been 53 years now since I departed Lebanon.

 

“We were surprised by the other, the room, and me. I took a small space from it, just enough to open my laptop and resume the life I had left behind, hungry and afraid. The room, in turn, took two years of my life.” In this poetic portrait of life caught between war, displacement, and cyclical violence, Nesrine Akram Khoury’s “A Room Between Two Massacres”* dredges up painful memories that may resonate with many despite their intensely personal nature. 

 

Language is not just a means of expression; it shapes identity and offers a broader, more complex connection to culture. In his essay “Arabic Literature in French: A Confusing Classification,”* published in Al Quds Al Arabi, Algerian novelist Waciny Laredj unravels the complex relationship between Arab writers, the French language, and identity. Language, he writes, is not merely a tool of expression — for many, it is a “home” and a determinant of cultural and intellectual vision, especially among writers who adopted French, whether by necessity or strategic choice, whose Arab identities were erased and sidelined in the literary world.