Rumynations: Syria in Contention

By Alejandro Moreiras

Ashams, the area called Suriya by the Byzantines, was conquered by the Arabs in the mid-seventh century, much of the fighting being over by 650.

It was an ancient land, a land of plenty. The Arabs had known Syria as the southeastern semiarid desert plateaus of that country run into the harsh, dry deserts of Arabia, in a continuity not unknown to the traveling Arabian tradesmen, pilgrim, and Bedouin. But the land was not predominantly Arab, although there were Arabs. Its population was, as it has always been, impressively heterogeneous. Its countryside sprinkled with monasteries of different church orders, whether Monophysite or Diophysite, Syriac, Latin, or Orthodox. Christianity, in its many forms, was the majority religion. But there were also Jews, Samaritans, Pagans, Armenians, Aramaens, and of course, the traveler—merchant or pilgrim—who could have been of any religion or nationality. The Byzantine Empire—the Muslim’s arch-enemy—with a capital in what is now called Istanbul, considered Syria its southern jewel. A cradle of civilization. The Holy Land. READ MORE

Andreas Economakis

photo by Andreas Economakis

“Exodus”

by Andreas Economakis

3:30 p.m. Los Angeles, California. Five months after 9/11.

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Clive’s dented, dirt-brown Cherokee, staring out the window. The West Hollywood scenery streams past me in colorful, repetitive bursts. White stucco house, palm tree, white stucco house, palm tree. Clean driveways spill into the street, beckoning the eye upwards, inwards, for a quick glimpse of the American Dream. “Armed Response” signs keep guard next to candy-colored cars and water-fattened cactuses, defending houses that peer onto the street with glassy, vacant eyes. The image lasts for just for a second or two, quickly replaced by a slight variation of the same thing. A change of car make or color. A Japanese plum tree instead of a cactus. READ MORE

Socialism or Barbarism in Egypt and Beyond: An Open Question

also republished as “Revolution in Egypt?  What Revolution?” on Pambazuka on 16 February, 2011

and on ccarrico.wordpress.com

Pambazuka summarized my argument as follows:

Whether Egypt’s association with US-backed capitalism has been disrupted is a question that factory workers might yet decide, writes Christopher Carrico.

“Everyone should start forming unions & labor associations now. If we don’t build those now, we’ll be fucked by the regime soon.”  — Hossam el-Hamalawy on twitter, Sunday, February 13, 2011.

Let us be clear from the outset. There has been no revolution in Egypt… yet.

Hosni Mubarak has been President of Egypt since October 14, 1981, and his government has consistently acted on behalf of the country’s economic, political, and military elite for the almost three decades since.  Mubarak resigned as head of state this week: on February 11, 2011. Vice President Omar Suleiman announced Mubarak’s resignation to the Egyptian public and to the world, and state power was handed over to the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces, a body of the 18 highest-ranking officers who head the Egyptian military. As of today (Sunday, February 13, 2011) the Egyptian military has dissolved parliament, suspended the Constitution, and imposed a military junta that has declared itself an interim government responsible for overseeing an “orderly” transition to civilian rule in six months time. READ MORE

SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: SARAH LAW

FALL INTO PLACE
by Sarah Law

You love the way my hair falls
over your bones, your prone body, how
I choose to cover you with words
so close to your own. From here
I can’t imagine why we ever worried,
even the span of my hand, small
compared with yours, fits to your plan. READ MORE

Flash Fiction Series: David Bowen

One More Banana

by David Bowen

 

Cheetah’s sister, Marie, chose a banana from the kitchen table, where Tarzan had thrown the day’s take. He fell into his easy chair with a growl and a wave of his hand. Marie repeated the dismissive gesture with her banana, but silently.

“I’m sick of it too, kid. Banana stew, mashed bananas, banana chowder.” Tarzan held up his hand. “Jesus—I think my skin’s turning yellow.” READ MORE

Unworkable

Unworkable

I should be more excited about the prospect of gainful employment, I realize this. After benefiting from Obama’s  unemployment extension I should be refreshed and ready to rejoin the workforce. Frankly I feel like I never left it: the unpaid work of running a household keeps me quite nicely busy, available as I am for family members, friends  and the community which happily accepts my volunteering hours at my kid’s middle school. I didn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt drawing unemployment — call it my own small contribution to keeping federal money in the country rather than exporting tear gas to dubious foreign regimes at the taxpayers’ expense. Perhaps I’m just conforming to type here, one of the infamous slacker generation, but this would be too simplistic, because I have been applying for jobs, many, many types of jobs, all of which I seem to be unsuitable for. Strange really when I have so much work experience my true resume would cover pages. READ MORE

Flash Fiction Series: Paul Crenshaw

Tall

by Paul Crenshaw

 

I am four feet two inches tall. My bed sits sixteen inches off the ground. My dog is two feet tall, although I dont know if you say dogs are tall like you say humans are tall. The flower outside my window is nine inches tall. The yellow bird that landed on the windowsill is four inches tall. My Ben Kenobi toy is three inches tall. His light saber is three quarters of an inch tall. My father used to be very tall, but now he is not so tall. He slumps around in his chair. He is no longer as tall as he was. The tree in our front yard is sixteen feet tall. I measured it by climbing up as high as I could and dropping the tape measure. I had to guess a little. READ MORE

Book Review of Liam MacSheoinin’s GEORGE W. BUSH BUYS COKE IN MID-ETERNITY

An Agenbite of Inwit & Other Wits as Well

by Duff Brenna

“Hedonic Engineer” Brian Jordan has wandered off the straight path and is nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita (midway along the journey of life), when he falls madly in love with the luscious Rachel, a woman who should have a warning sign stamped on her gorgeous behind that reads Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate: Abandon all hope ye who enter here! Upon her tail hangs the tale of MacSheoinin’s wildly-word-rich, rollicking satire. READ MORE