We Call to the Eye & the Night: Love Poems by Writers of Arab Heritage
Edited by Hala Alyan and Zeina Hashem Beck
Persea Books, 2023
Reading the two hundred poems in “We Call to the Eye & the Night” — an anthology that contains the work of 85 contemporary Anglophone poets of Arab heritage — gives the reader the sensation of gazing into a brilliant night sky, one that is both familiar and strange. Venus, whose association with the goddess of love animates this book, shines more brightly than usual, as sharply visible as the crescent moon. Some of the stars are familiar — such as Fady Joudah, Naomi Shihab Nye, Philip Metres, Mohja Kahf, Hayan Charara, Nathalie Handal, Glenn Shaheen, Hedy Habra, Lisa Suhair Majaj — while others have risen to join them in new constellations. Forty of the poets represented here were born in 1990 or afterward, including George Abraham (recently named editor of Mizna Journal), Leila Chatti (who teaches at Smith College), Mohammed El-Kurd (Palestine correspondent for The Nation), Noor Naga (who teaches at the American University in Cairo), Fargo Nissim Tbakhi (who teaches at Towson University), Jess Rizkallah (an author and illustrator), and Nadim Choufi (also a videographer and sculptor, as well as co-Programs Director at Beirut Art Center).
How Ziad Rahbani Challenged Religious and Political Orthodoxy with Wit, Sorrow, and Song
By Sami Asmar
On 26 July 2025, the Lebanese composer, pianist, playwright, and polemicist Ziad Rahbani passed away from cirrhosis of the liver in Beirut at the age of 69. Since he started composing as a teenager, the son of the legendary Fairuz (now 90 years old) and the late Assi Rahbani of the celebrated Rahbani Brothers, the musical prodigies who defined the shape of the modern Lebanese short song, Ziad leaves us a multi-decade-long legacy that reshaped Arab music and Lebanese politics. The genius and enigmatic Ziad will be remembered by his countless fans worldwide, but likely happily forgotten by the authorities he challenged and ridiculed.
Abeer Dagher Esber on the ‘Sectarianization of Blood’ in Syria’s Long Continuum of Collapse
By Naomi Pham
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.
Khalil al-Neimi Exposes What Tyranny Has Done to His Homeland
By Elie Chalala
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.
Nesrine Akram Khoury on the Trauma of Displacement in ‘A Room Between Two Massacres’
By Naomi Pham
“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.
When Lebanon is in crisis, and even when it is not, laypeople and some experts rush to use popularized and romanticized explanations suggesting that the country is experiencing something unprecedented. They reminisce and claim Lebanon had a much better time in the “good old days.” If the crises are financial and economic, they proclaim that Lebanon enjoyed economic growth, stability, high employment, and increased incomes in the pre-crisis days.
The Information Revolution and the spread of the internet and social media have had severe repercussions for cultural services as we know them. The loss of numerous publications remains one symptom of the many changes sweeping across the Arab world, which recently witnessed the closure of another publication, the Qatari cultural magazine Doha.
Why do we choose to tell painful stories, especially in documentary form, where we ask people to relive their trauma? That is a question I kept asking myself as I watched “Four Daughters.” Sometimes we need to know that pain is part of a story we too glibly read in the news, or perhaps it deepens a reality we think we know already.
After his passing in 2022, poets, intellectuals, and journalists offered their eulogies of the Lebanese poet Hassan Abdallah (1943-2022), who captivated readers with his words. Among those honoring him were Shawqi Bzay, Abbas Beydoun, Jawdat Fakhreddine, Talal Salman, and others. Without exception, Abdallah’s colleagues and friends remember him as a humble man, one who preferred to remain in the shadows and shun the limelight, festivals, and fiery speeches.
“Theatrical” perhaps best describes the current state of Lebanon’s performing arts scene, which seems to be embroiled in its own drama in recent days. Early this year, we bade farewell to the director and actor duo Antoine and Latifa Multaqa, pioneers of Lebanese theater’s 1960s avant-garde era and, for a moment, relished in nostalgia for Beirut’s culturally vibrant bygone days. Unfortunately, such rose-tinted memories have little room under the stifling atmosphere overtaking much of Lebanon’s arts and culture.
“There are clear faces that do not hide anything, as if their features convey the stories of their owners. It is as if every story in the life of its owner left a mark on it. For the Lebanese playwright Raymond Jebara, he wears a face of fatigue mixed with sharp sarcasm and a smile... eyes that describe the man,” wrote the Kuwaiti Al Jarida in an interview with Jebara in 2010.
As if gripped by the fear of losing the history of Palestine, Fathi Ghaben kept Palestine close to him for his entire life, in his mind, art, and physical existence. Reporters, critics, and Palestinian government officials paid tribute to the artist, whose unwavering focus on Palestinian culture and memory saturated his life and work.