Indelible

Thresholds

Issue 1 (March 2019) www.indelibleaud.com

March 2019 2 Editor's Note Thresholds, a Journey Begins

Thresholds...

Indelible, AUD’s literary journal, breathes its first not only on the heels of 2019, but at a time coinciding with Dubai’s Month of Reading, and during a very exciting period, which is just a few months shy of the long-awaited Expo 2020. With the Expo’s theme of “Connecting Minds, Creating the Future”, and subthemes of Opportunity, Mobility, and Sustainability in mind, Indelible, in its current shape and form, is proud to take part in embodying these concepts: the opportunity for creatives to publish, gain acknowledgement, be seen, and cross paths with other like-minded talents who are also attempting to reach out to a broader literary and artistic global community. This brings us to the next Expo subtheme, that of Mobility—the agility of the written word, thought, and expression that will be able to travel across the world via this platform. The platform, an electronic literary magazine, also tends to focus on Sustainability—in its environment-friendly paperless form, not only sustaining trees, but also supporting the indelible quality of the written word that remains and prevails.

I am excited to watch Indelible spring and grow, as it bridges cultures and minds through a prospering community of the finest readers, voices, and aesthetic eyes around the globe. "Thresholds" will be the theme of the first issue; we are now at the threshold of a new inter-cultural literary era, sharing and showcasing our different expressions of the worlds around us and in us with each other as a global literary community. This is how AUD’s creativity reaches out to the world.

Dr. Roula-Maria Dib Editor in Chief

AUD’s new online literary journal, Indelible, will be a showcase for the many-limbed, hydra-headed, multifarious creative works of the AUD community. Encompassing and ranging across visual arts and textual, and different genres within both, our hope is that this new and fabulous literary foray out of AUD will enhance the public face and expand the remit of AUD’s continual practices in the liberal arts. By giving both the student body and the faculty spacious room to exhibit their accomplishments, we hope to be part of a continuing gambit at AUD, which aims to show the inborn and the studied talents of her inhabitants – because AUD is a dwelling-place for so many of those talents, both recognised to date and as yet unrecognised. In short, we hope to evince in the serial developments of this new, incipient AUD organ, the way the minds of both young and older practitioners in the liberal arts are geared onto the future, theirs, as much as the same can be said for AUD and Dubai more generally.

Dr. Omar Sabbagh Associate Editor

March 2019 3 Editor-in-Chief Roula Maria Dib

Associate Editor Omar Sabbagh

Table of Contents

INTERVIEW Interview with Dr. Christine Mangan, by Dr. Roula Maria Dib………………………………………………07

MOVIE REVIEW Caroline: The Door that Should’ve never been Opened, Mayar Ibrahim……………………………..12

NON-FICTION In-Betweens, Dr. Sharihan Al Akhras…………………………………………………………………………………….16 A Small Window to a Pretty Limbo, Dana Hachwa……………………………………………………………….19

ART Art, Lorette C. Luzajic……………………………………………………………………………………………………………24 Les Portes, Dr. Pamela Chrabieh…………………………………………………………………………………………..28

Book Review Tangerine, Dr. Roula Maria Dib…………………………………………………………………………………………….31

Column Opinion: On Nuclear Energy, Alia Falaknaz………………………………………………………………………….36

Reflection: “He is With Us Always”, Dr. Omar Sabbagh ………………………………………………………38

March 2019 4

Fiction Venon in the Eye, Rohan Healy …………………………………………………………………………………………..41

Poetry Art of the Mind: Ocean Night, Fadeke Lipide ……………………………………………………………………..50

The Other One, Maryam A. Wajdi ………………..……………………………………………………………………..52 Man, Elephant, Water, Mayar Ibrahim ………..……………………………………………………………………..53 Coffee of the Day, Dana Hachwa ………………..………………………………………………………………………54 Forget, Rohan Healy ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………55

March 2019 5

INTERVIEW

March 2019 6 Thresholds: Interview with Dr. Christine Mangan, Author

March 2019 7 Sometimes you are at a threshold of a new phase in life, unknowingly, of course. You travel to the other end of the world, only to discover that this isn't the only change nor the only exciting journey you are about to partake in. So much more was in store for Dr. Christine Mangan (former professor at AUD) when she was only beginning to adjust to her new life in Dubai. With a book contract and a potential movie project, Christine's life changes overnight (literally). I'll never forget the hypnotic look on Christine's face one day, early in the morning after she had spent an entire night on a long-distance call with her editor:

"Morning Christine. How was last night?" "Surreal..."

And that is when her nascent debut novel, Tangerine, was destined to become an international bestseller, "the thriller that everyone will be talking about" (as put by Esquire). In this interview, Christine will be sharing some more details with us about her inspiration, experience, and incredible journey as one of the most successful contemporary authors--not to mention that she was the initial co-dreamer behind encouraging Indelible into existence!

Read a sample of Tangerine here. Click here for an audio excerpt of the book.

As a writer, what are your sources of inspiration? Since when did you discover the novelist in you?

I have always wanted to be a writer, I just never actually thought that it was a possibility! Over the years, I’ve started work on one book, only to later abandon it for another, never managing to get to a point where anything felt finished or complete. After graduating from my PhD program, I had more of a sense of how to finish a longer piece of writing—and time! Following my graduation, during the months when I was applying for jobs, I also used that time to sit down and write—and finish—a novel. In terms of inspiration, the places that I travel to and the people that I meet there are probably the biggest sources of inspiration for my writing. Without visiting Tangier, Tangerine would most likely never have been written.

You were in Dubai, teaching at AUD at the time when the idea of “Indelible” occurred to you and Dr. Roula-Maria Dib. Tell us a bit about the early stages of the journal’s conception.

We noticed that there were a lot of students who wanted to be creative and only limited opportunities for them to do so at AUD. Both of us had a number of talented students, all of whom were eager for a space that would allow them the opportunity to be encouraged creatively. From there, we started to put together an idea for Indelible, a publication in which they could share their work with the rest of the AUD community.

March 2019 8

• How did you find your experience in Dubai, and in AUD specifically?

My experience working at AUD was unforgettable, namely because it afforded me the opportunity to visit a part of the world that I had never considered traveling to before. Once there, I was surprised to find just how much I enjoyed it and, in fact, there are still quite a few things that I miss about life in Dubai. I loved exploring the food culture of “old” Dubai, (like Al Reef Bakery and Bu Qtair), as well as the “new,” like Espresso Lab (my favorite coffee) and Stomping Grounds (the best fish and chips) and Mirzam (I still miss their chocolate). There is also such a strong sense of community in Dubai, and at AUD, because so many people come to the city from other places and I think ultimately that is what I enjoyed the most.

• Your debut novel, Tangerine, was a huge success and an instant bestseller with thousands of readers across the globe. The novel has been dubbed as “unputdownable”, How would you describe this incredible journey?

It has been completely unexpected—and at times a bit overwhelming! I’m so grateful to have found such a wonderful agent who picked Tangerine from the slush pile and saw potential in it, not to mention my amazing editor and all the booksellers and readers who have embraced the novel.

• What are your future writing plans?

I am currently finishing work on my second novel, so hopefully there will be more news on that shortly. I have a few ideas already for the third—although I am not sure which one I will settle on just yet!

• You have a passion for traveling—how would you describe yourself as a globetrotter? What are some of your most memorable travel experiences, and how do they influence your writing?

March 2019 9 I think one of my most memorable travel experiences was a road trip through Transylvania. It was November and everything was covered in fog—including the roads—which made for quite an atmospheric experience. Also, my first trip to Morocco, where I took the overnight train from Marrakech to Tangier. It was early summer, there had been a heatwave and the train had been sitting under the hot sun all day, which meant the air conditioning couldn’t catch up. Added to that, the windows were all locked shut, despite the train attendant’s best attempts to open them. In the end, all he could do was offer a bottle of water to everyone and then disappear into his own compartment for the night. There was a lot of shouting, a lot of tears, and while it wasn’t a particularly comfortable ride, it was definitely a memorable one.

Experiences like these not only provide a source of inspiration, but also encourage me to write as well. I oftentimes find that writing—particularly first drafts—come to me more naturally when I’m on the road.

• Who are your favorite authors, and what books have you read lately?

My favorite authors include Daphne du Maurier, the Brontë sisters, Sarah Waters, Tana French and Anthony Quinn. Books that I’ve enjoyed recently include Social Creature, by Tara Isabella Burton, A Certain Smile, by Francoise Sagan, and French Girl with Mother by Norman Ollestad.

March 2019 10

MOVIE REVIEW

March 2019 11

Coraline: The Door that Should've never been Opened By Mayar Ibrahim

The Door That Should’ve Never Been Opened

A secret door, an alternate reality, and another mother are three of the many aspects of the odd life of a little girl called Coraline. Coraline is an animated movie produced in 2009 by Henry Sleik, the director and producer of The Nightmare before Christmas, and it was based on the novel, Coraline, by Neil Gaiman (2002). The movie was first premiered worldwide in the Portland International Film Festival, after which it was released in the United States and made 16.85 million dollars during the weekend it was released in. Additionally, the movie ranked third in the Box Office and it made 124 million dollars worldwide after its box office release.

This animated movie, Coraline, is named after and revolves around the life of the protagonist, an unhappy and dissatisfied child who moves into The Pink Palace in Ashland, Oregon from Pontiac, Michigan. At the start of the movie the young girl wanders around her new home counting the doors and windows of the house, as her father instructed her to do so while her parents work. As she does so, Coraline discovers a secret little door that in itself holds a secret. Coraline finds an odd button-shaped key that opens the door, and during the night the door leads her to another and better reality of her life. In this reality, she finds that she has an Other Mother, Other Father, and copies of her neighbors as well; in Coraline’s eyes, her other life in this alternate reality is better than her real one, but as with everything good, there comes a price, which is what Coraline is yet to learn as she wanders through this alternate reality.

Coraline Jones (voiced by Dakota Fanning) meets her odd neighbors Miss Spink (Jennifer Saunders), Miss Forcible (Dawn French) and Mr. Bobinsky (Ian McShane) when her parents were too busy working. Throughout the movie the audience gets a sense of foreshadowing when Coraline meets the grandson of the owner of the Pink Palace, Wyborn Lovat. Wyborn tells Coraline about how strange it is that his grandmother let her and her family move into the Pink Palace as his grandmother doesn’t allow people with children to live there. This creates a sense of tension within the movie as it shows another hidden story in this movie which is surrounded by mystery.

Coraline and the Other Mother (Teri Hatcher) have a mother-daughter relationship that every child dreams of, as the Other Mother does everything in her power to satisfy and keep Coraline happy in this alternate universe. She created this alternate universe especially for Coraline because the Other Mother has other intentions than what she lets Coraline believe. This shows how “home” is a reoccurring theme in Coraline as the movie creates two different homes for Coraline; her real and imperfect home and another perfect and exciting home in the alternate universe.

March 2019 12

The mystery behind the door, the warnings Coraline gets from the people in her life and the alternate reality she so desperately loves is what makes this movie the dark, fantasy horror film it is meant to be. The Other Mother’s hidden agenda and secrecy is what makes Coraline fight with all her might against the price she must pay in order to stay in her alternate reality. It is Coraline’s willpower and clever thinking that helps her unlock the mysteries of her alternate reality and her other family. Coraline’s bravery is one of the main themes in the movie as she has to overcome the Other Mother’s intentions of keeping her in the alternate universe not only by winning the “game” she plays with the Other Mother, but also by finding a way to free herself from her.

Another aspect that has proven itself to be an additional key factor of making the movie a dark, mysterious movie is the music (by the French composer Bruno Coulais). The music is eerie and simple from the beginning of the movie, and it plays while showing a needle-hand undoing a doll of a figure in order to create and sew a doll that looks like Coraline. As the plot thickens, the music gets darker and eerier, making the audience sit on the edges of their seats, anxious to see what would happen to little Coraline.

Coraline’s producer Henry Sleik took a huge risk when he made this dark horrifying mysterious story an animated film. Even though this risk worked in his favor, the movie was rated as PG; however, any child under the age of ten can be scared out of their wits while watching it. Coraline is known to have been disturbing to watch for any child below ten years old—as the mystery and the story unravels so does the spooky and horrifying aspects of the movie.

Other than the fact that the movie was rated PG instead of providing a higher age restriction, the characters’ physical appearance was somewhat troublesome. Coraline’s father and Other Father (John Hodgman) were the creepiest looking characters of the movie, and they played a supporting role in both Coraline’s real and other life. Their hunched backs, along with their elongated and horizontal necks, made them the most uncanny and oddest-looking characters in the movie, which would not have been so bad and actually would have been more suitably compatible if both fathers had played a bigger role in the horror aspect of the movie.

Regardless of the way the characters look, this movie is an eye-opening mystery that deserves to be solved. The mysteries found in the movie revolve around the opening as it leaves the audience wondering “whose needle hands are sewing the doll of the main character?”, and the hidden intentions of the Other Mother as the entrance to her alternate universe is through a door so small that only children can fit through. The targets of the Other Mother are children, but this fact only leaves the audience wondering, “why?”

The poster adds to the themes as it warns the audience by saying, “Be Careful What You Wish for”.

March 2019 13 Coraline is not merely a movie that requires a warning on the poster, but it is most definitely a movie worth watching and a mystery worth solving. The tagline on the poster was used to entice the audience’s curiosity as it describes Coraline’s experience as “An Adventure too Weird for Words.”

Mayar Ibrahim is a 19-year-old Egyptian student studying journalism at the American University in Dubai, and she has been writing poetry and short stories since she was around 12 years old. Writing is how Mayar expresses herself and deals with her emotions. She is also an assistant editor for Indelible, as she is responsible for the poetry section, busy selecting contributions with words that come across the way they were intended.

March 2019 14

NON-FICTION

March 2019 15 In-Betweens by Dr. Sharihan Al Akhras

It is almost winter again. Distance has finally taken its toll on us. Yes, we have become strangers, and we have signed the official, unspoken agreement of mutual, sincere indifference. I find myself staring at your pictures for hours on end, finding in your reflectionless eyes a final resource of sanity, a proof of a fading happening, that we once ‘were’.

You may call this my “emotional diaries” for the no longer present you. Possibly, everything you will never, and do not care to know.

It is almost winter again. Your image remains solid.

I still guard all the memories that once defined your careless details, safely locked, and cunningly distributed throughout the deepest segments within me. They are beautifully surrounded by the core of all emotions, where memories forever dwell.

Do you remember that day when the children in us decided to become friends? The very same day when you and I noticed we had matching ‘beauty spots’ on our right hands, distributed in exact similar places. I find it silly to hope that you may remember me during one of the many times you look at your hand. It is even sillier to secretly wish so, when I have to admit that the very same hand could be in the process of familiarizing itself with another person, maybe playing with someone else’s hair, or counting other beauty spots. After all, hands are not really famous for memory, are they?

It is almost winter… again. The cold has faithfully remained present, just like your unwavering departure. Its days are similar; like those days when I was consumed by you simply existing; laughing, smoking your cigarette, and looking at me with eyes filled with postponed talk due to an early time. How mesmerized I was by your mystifying knowledge behind that calm exterior of yours. Never had anyone so perfectly remained confident, certain, and sublime - your posture; the perfect balance of being distant no matter how seemingly approachable.

All happening in winter.

Too painful to recall…

March 2019 16 Too painful to deny…

I run back to the safe you that I have nurtured inside.

I remember our early stages, when you constantly referred to me as ‘the light of the dark side’ of you. I wonder… has your life become brighter? I find myself desperately seeking a single beam of light to arrive from the other side of where you could be, loyally waiting for a sympathetic messenger from the furthest ends of the unknown.

This is where I find myself yearning for you; in the stages of the ‘in betweens’. As I put one wet foot out of the shower, as the key spins happily in its lock, and through the covers of my sheets, when your pain awakens at night, as I helplessly turn from one side to the other.

Finally, overwhelmed.

I sit in your favorite chair, and I become consumed by the pain of admitting you are no longer here. If I close my eyes and surrender to the breeze, I can trick my brain into believing you are about to rest your hand on my shoulder…and I wait… any moment now… any moment.

Eyes closed… I spread my hands in the emptiness around. I could almost pull you from the surrounding air; I could almost feel you… Your smell, as if feeling my agony, rushes from the unknown distance to embrace me, like a comforting friend, soothing me without hesitance. Eyes still closed…Here you are, less than an inch away…I welcome you along with the air in my lungs… Here I am … Slowly yet steadily almost inhaling you… Almost, becoming you…

The closest I will ever experience you.

It is almost winter again.

The clock celebrates the passing of every hour, yet it mourns in its remote echo the arrival of the 6 o’clock. A sense of betrayal sneaks upon me. I rage at the possibility of a 6 o’clock existing other than our own. Our sacred time. When you first reached to me with the shoulders of a warrior. A time where

March 2019 17 the colors of the universe shift, marking the short divine moment when the two halves of the day meet, when the moon salutes the sun with a farewell lullaby, a time when you appear.

Recalling those memories, I can almost feel your warmth around me. The objects you once have touched are redefining my new understanding of patience… the power I receive by simply remembering how you once have touched them. It seems that we are all sitting here; your favorite chair, your coffee mug, and I, are all helplessly co-existing in this room, awaiting the never returning touch, in perfect stillness.

I remain.

Dr. Sharihan Al-Akhras is the winner of the short story competition at the University of Jordan for the year 2007. She recently completed her PhD on Milton and Middle-Eastern mythology. At the moment she is in the process of co-editing a collection of essays entitled: “Women (Re)Writing Milton”. Her interests include Early Modern Literature, Middle-Eastern mythology, the demonic, Arab female authorship, East- West relations, and media.

March 2019 18 A Small Window to a Pretty Limbo by Dana Hachwa

“Now that you’re here, we’ll get to do fun things together!”

Lucine, the youngest member of the host family I stayed with in Armenia in April of 2016, said that to me at the beginning of my week-long stay. I was not very enthused. You see, I was there purely on business grounds, not pleasure: I was to collect my Armenian passport one year after my family and I started the citizenship process, but this time, I was there alone.

I remember looking at Lucine, with her frizzy, curly, almost-black hair... eyes beaming, as they always were, with much-too-youthful glee. I smiled, looked away, then smiled some more, giving her some sort of vague agreement. The time I spent in Armenia the year prior was not something I would have classified as “fun”. I was 19 then, and can you blame me? The country was a bore, the people too melancholy, eerily quiet and reserved. It reminded me of my home country, Syria, and yet it also didn’t - the Syria I knew before the civil war was livelier and bountiful a thousandfold. Nevertheless, it was enough of a similarity to breed a sort of nostalgic sweetness yet also a sharp distaste of the kind of country I wanted to belong to.

My host family’s house was a humble one. It was big but sparsely furnished, so that anything besides the living area and kitchen were bare and cold. And I don’t say cold lightly, at least for me. April was near the beginning of springtime in Armenia, and it was chillier for me than full-blown winter in the desertous United Arab Emirates where I permanently lived. The trees that generously dotted the house’s square garden, as they also did the pavements of central Yerevan, were as bare as the house, with scruffy beards of green sprouting thinly here and there. Despite my bitterness at being there in the first place, the very obvious shift in seasons was marvellous to me: one of the few positives in those gruelling first two days. Although the country does experience snow in the wintertime, there was none now, with the exception of the frozen landscapes I had encountered thousands of metres below me on the plane, draping Armenia’s welcoming party of mountain ranges. Those mountain ranges were followed by the snowy salute of dormant volcano Mount Ararat, one of Armenia’s revered symbols and the alleged resting place of Noah’s Ark. Mount Ararat is also the resting place of much political tension: the Armenians call it their own, yet it falls within Turkey’s borders after the Turks seized it in the Turkish- Armenian war of 1920. A dormant volcano indeed.

This tension was alive beyond the mountains, and was always present in the house. The little television in the living room’s corner was always on the Armenian news channel, with Turkish president Recep Tayyip Erdoğan the star of the show. My hosts hated him as all Armenians did: the Turks would always

March 2019 19 be thorns in Armenia’s side. Indeed, it just so happened that days prior my arrival, the four-day April War fought between Armenian and Azerbaijani forces was taking place at their borders - with Azerbaijan allegedly supported by Turkey. And so, sentiments were even more sour than usual, and Lucine’s mother made sure to vehemently explain it to me in broken Arabic whenever I asked.

Ironically, inside the house was colder than the outside - something I, the desert dweller, couldn’t quite wrap my head around. Lucine, in her 30s, and her elderly mother and father would spend the majority of their time in that rectangular living area in front of the TV, with closed double doors on one side and the kitchen doorway draped with tarp on the other. This was to trap warmth in the only room that they could afford to heat. Thankfully, I had an electric space heater in my room. My designated space was upstairs in the top-left corner, simply furnished with a dark brown bedroom set and overlooking more clawing, newly flowering trees in the neighbours’ gardens. Lucine’s mother would later tell me, to my amazement, that she would buy her milk and yoghurt from her neighbour’s cows, yet she would complain, her countenance crumpling with displeasure behind her metal-framed spectacles, that the milk and yoghurt were too expensive. One of the reasons why, she said, was that they weren't native Armenians: Lucine and her family were Syrian-Armenians, who’d fled their home after the Syrian civil war. “They can tell by my accent,” Lucine once told me while we were on a taxi ride, as minutes earlier, the Armenian driver had begun questioning her excitedly on her origins, her marriage plans, and other personal information. “They’re always interrogating me. They’re so nosy, it’s annoying.”

Keeping to her word, Lucine indeed took me along with her to many sites in Yerevan, which had to be reached by taxi ride from their house in the outskirts of the main city. The very first place she led me to was Matenadaran, the Museum of Ancient Scriptures. Its exterior was sharp and imposingly grey, a classic example of Soviet architecture left over from Armenia’s time in the USSR, built from basalt and rising strictly from the surrounding pale-green landscape. Six large statues lined its facade, depicting historical Armenian scholars Toros Roslin, Grigor Tatevatsi, Anania Shirakatsi, Movses Khorenatsi, Mkhitar Gosh and Frik. The inside presented many manuscripts as promised, and was much more welcoming with its carpet-lined grand stairways, marble pillars and colourful murals.

Our next destination that day was a crowded candy shop, where Lucine and I sipped hot chocolate and ate large, beignet-like pastries sprinkled with powdered-sugar. That store was Grand Candy, and was a replica of what I thought Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory might be: chequered floors and multicoloured pastel walls, and high up near the ceiling was a suspended miniature train track, where a toy train would chug round and round as shoppers and candy-lovers below buzzed about in much the same way. This cheery little place was the liveliest I encountered on that trip. You see, we had traversed Yerevan’s streets on foot to reach it, as we did regularly over the next few days, and my memories of those walks were the opposite of lively: they were quiet, calm.

The pavements were clean, their tiles were neat, and the architecture of the buildings was European at times and Soviet at others with neat flower beds and trees, and more trees, with trunks painted chalk

March 2019 20 white. We walked through several public parks, of which there were many, some not even fenced off, and we encountered scores upon scores of Armenian figures immortalised in grey sculptures: musicians, military commanders, deities, novelists. It’s strange for me to reminisce about all of this in the present, because I realise that what I remember most about Yerevan was sombre silence and a sense of emptiness. Of course, there were many Armenian citizens scattered across the city as we explored it, most of them middle-aged or elderly (Armenia’s population is an ageing one) and going about their daily work and activities. Yet curiously, I envision myself wandering the city alone with Lucine, as if no one else was there - like the people themselves were part of the city, cemented in its grey stone, rather than independent, mobile actors. The city, or perhaps the entire country, was suspended in a torpid pocket of air in the world: it was in some sort of twilight. Or, it could be because it wasn’t tourist season.

Over the next few days, Lucine and I visited Yerevan Cascade, a giant limestone stairway interspersed with modern artistic sculptures, fountains and indoor art exhibition spaces. We visited Victory Park, located on a hill overlooking Yerevan, where the statue of Mother Armenia stood atop a basalt pedestal- museum. A newly-married couple was taking pictures at the entrance of the grey structure, the groom in a black suit and the bride in her pure white gown, and in the background of this romantic display was a Soviet rocket launcher and a surface-to-air missile, large and real, but inactive of course. Above this, Mother Armenia held aloft a large sword horizontally across her abdomen, watching over the city of Yerevan with her coppery gaze: a symbol of peace through strength. The basalt pedestal below her predates her, as it once held the statue of USSR leader Joseph Stalin.

At this point in the trip, I had already collected my Armenian passport from the immigration office, and unlike the start, I was accustomed to the city and was more than happy to accompany Lucine on the personal tour she’d promised to give. We bought that signature crispy-yet-fluffy Armenian bread and fed some swans at a small park, we had chocolate lava cake at a tourist cafe, we passed many street vendors selling bushels of flowers, we admired rows and rows of artwork displayed under now-fuller trees, we sat and talked in Lover’s Park with its small ponds and sculptures wrapped in greenery, we visited a local mall and watched The Jungle Book in a small movie theatre, and we took the underground train back home when we travelled too far for a walk or a taxi-drive back. At the end of each day, Lucine’s mother had a new and elaborate meal ready to fulfil our hunger, and all four of us sat and enjoyed it together, relaying all that we had done that day. There were large zucchinis stuffed with rice and beef mince, and another day there was a lentil soup containing pasta and vegetables, or rice and chicken with roasted cashew nuts on top, as well as beef kebabs with french fries, or a pink salad with cabbage and beets, and on one day there was a vegetarian “kebbeh” made of mashed potatoes and fine bulgur. And the next morning, the same was done over breakfast, where we had either scrambled eggs or pastries topped with thyme and olive oil, but bread and cheese (two Armenian staples) were always a certainty.

March 2019 21 One of our final destinations that I wanted to speak of last was the Armenian Genocide Museum. The entirety of the museum was underground in a winding, man-made, charcoal-grey cave, and it snaked around as it led visitors chronologically through the events that took place before, during, and after the Armenian genocide. Above it was a larger memorial complex, where a structure composed of twelve angled slabs surrounds a pit alight with an eternal flame remembering the genocide of 1.5 million Armenians. The extermination of the Armenian people beginning in April 24, 1915, was perpetuated at the hands of the Ottoman Empire, and continued until after World War I. The genocide began with the removal of Armenian intellectuals and scholars from Istanbul and their murder, followed by the killing of men and the deportation of women, children and elderly into the Syrian Desert, where they were subjected to hunger, thirst, rape and murder, though some survived. Many returned to Armenia, and a vast majority now dot the globe, including Syria, with Lucine and her family being one of them. The Armenian Genocide is what I and many others believe is ground zero for the determined, humble, faithful yet idle demeanour of the Armenians, a state of mind that had left the country suspended in a twilight ever since.

“Now that you’re here, we’ll get to do fun things together!” was what Lucine told me in the beginning. Lucine, with her youthful heart and adventurous spirit, was stuck here. Fleeing her home with her parents in the midst of civil war and bound to them by duty, she was suspended in a twilight herself. She had an older brother who was married and away, yet she, unmarried, and despite her far- reaching aspirations and hopes, was confined to Armenia, a land that is both strange and familiar to her. She could leave and lead her own life, but, “My father and mother have bad health, I can’t just leave them.” And that was when I understood: I was a respite from all of that, and in my visit I’d allowed her to live out her adventures with me, and through me, if even for a moment. She had thoroughly enjoyed her time with me, as I had enjoyed my time with her as well, and she did so despite the sombre, yet somehow hopeful truth that she had to return to, which is to wait, immovable, silently and persistently.

Like Armenia and its people, after suffering much hardship and discrimination in its long-gone, and arguably current, history, there will be moments, days, or even years, where we will be stuck in a twilight, waiting in idle, pointless limbo. Yet Armenia and Lucine both exist as a proof of this: even in twilight, we must conduct ourselves with modesty, integrity and pride, and should never miss a chance to gaze outside our limbos whenever a window materialises, for someday, it might in fact be a door.

Dana Hachwa is majoring in Journalism (English track) at the American University in Dubai. Dana sees writing as a vehicle through which she can share hidden, intriguing information or perspectives on places, objects and events. Through her writing, she tries to show her readers how what may seem boring or mediocre can actually be the opposite.

March 2019 22

ART

March 2019 23 Art: Lorette C. Luzajic

Lorette on her work: "My visual artwork reflects my eclectic curiosity about everything. Working with collage and a wide variety of mixed media allows me to experiment continually and explore the whole world, to make unexpected juxtapositions, to place ideas and elements together, and to take them apart. I'm inspired by poetry, beauty, people, art history, travel, humour, and colour. My artworks are vignettes of moments, often just a passing dream, meant to be read the way a poem is, that is, viscerally, for their strange beauty."

"In Chess, Even Legendary Masters Are Still Beginners", 48x48", mixed media on gallery canvas, by

March 2019 24 Lorette C. Luzajic.

"All the Beauty", 12x12", mixed media on canvas by Lorette C. Luzajic.

March 2019 25

"Wonder Woman For President", 48x48", mixed media on gallery canvas.

From the editor: Lorette Luzajic expresses the aspects of new thresholds in life: journeys toward love, change, and achievement. In her work "In Chess, Even Legendary Masters Are Still Beginners", we can see how in the game of life, every master is always challenged by the beginning of a newer, tougher phase that leaves us stronger than how we were as masters of the phase before it. Every source of inspiration on a journey is rooted in its own beauty, as expressed in Luzajic's "All the Beauty", and inner power, along with ambition and confidence, is always a call for action and change, and a necessary aspect of every threshold, as shown in "Wonder Woman for President".

March 2019 26 Lorette C. Luzajic is an award winning collage mixed media artist from Toronto, Canada. She has exhibited in fairs, festivals, literary journals and other print and online publications, galleries, cafes, hotels, billboards, laundromats, banks, residences, gardens, auctions, and museums at home as well as in Mexico, Tunisia, USA, and around the world. She has a Bachelor of Applied Arts in Journalism, and is the founding editor ofThe Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by visual art. Visit her at www.mixedupmedia.ca.

March 2019 27 "Les Portes" By Dr. Pamela Chrabieh

"Les portes", by Dr. Pamela Chrabieh Oil and acrylic on canvas, Beirut - Lebanon, 2012

March 2019 28

Dr. Pamela Chrabieh: "Doors are the keepers of secrets, memories of the past and dreams about bright futures. Doors' closures give the feeling of fences that speak. Behind doors, there are people who live, love each other, argue, are sad or happy; there are furniture and objects, sounds of voices, smells of soup ...Doors are boundaries, presence, absence, call, communication, access, defense, rupture, transition, intimate, and universal. Doors are protective shelters, guardians of passages between the profane and the sacred. Doors are chances to do something different, they are places of departure and entrances into new worlds. Doors are ecumenical images of life's immanence."

Dr. Pamela Chrabieh is a scholar, writer, visual artist, and activist. Author of several books and papers with a 20+ year experience in higher education, communication, content creation, and the arts, she has exhibited her artworks in Canada, Lebanon, and the United Arab Emirates. Previously Associate Professor of Middle Eastern Studies at the American University in Dubai, she currently owns and manages a Beirut- based company offering expertise in Learning and Communication. http://pamelachrabiehblog.com and http://spnc.co

March 2019 29

BOOK REVIEW

March 2019 30 Book Review: Tangerine by Dr. Roula-Maria Dib

•

“Lucy and I had always functioned as a twosome, held separate and apart from the rest. Distinct” (p. 90).

Lucy’s gaze is one to cringe under: “But there was still that strange quality, that penetrating gaze that made me blush and look away and that made me love her and hate her all at once” (p. 49). The discovery of a friend’s psychopathic tendencies as an uncomfortable epiphanic disillusionment (that might take months, maybe even years, to realize) is tackled in Christine Mangan’s debut thriller novel,

March 2019 31 Tangerine. With its emotionally-charged depiction of unresolved dialectical tensions in a symbiotic, ultimately toxic friendship between two women, the novel has much to tell about psychopathy, the nature of good and evil, the different voices of the psyche, and the detrimental effects of trauma: “The feelings I felt towards Lucy, I often thought, were something like this—something sharper than a normal friendship, something that I felt threatened to overwhelm and, quite possibly, destroy. There were moments when I had thought that I did not so much want her as wanted to be her” (p. 95).

The novel is set in 1956 Tangier, and action starts when Lucy Mason appears at the door of Alice Shipley’s apartment in Tangier, where the latter lives with her husband, John (who works for the government). Just when Alice attempts to start a new life after her separation from Lucy, the latter’s arrival threatens to destroy these efforts: “And there she was: my past, made corporeal, made tangible, or whatever other fancy words I was certain she would use to describe it” (p. 48). And various adventures ensued: “…she had so carefully reinserted herself back into my life without a mention of the past, of her part in what had unfolded between us, the tragedy that had ensconced us” (p. 83). Told from the points of view of both Lucy and Alice, the novel’s events happen via flashbacks of memories from Bennington College, where they were roommates and best friends. Alice was an orphan who had lost her parents a few years before, and was prone to severe anxiety attacks, hives, and hallucinations, which became even worse after the death of her boyfriend, Tom, during her final year at college. Alice, a meek, mild, and demure girl with a weak personality (“Alice doesn’t like to make decisions” (p. 44).), was under the care of her rich aunt, Maud, and therefore had significant amounts of money sent to her. Lucy, on the contrary, did not that have the socio-economic luxury of Alice’s upbringing, as she came from “a struggling, lower-class family. A tiny flat above a garage. An absent mother and father” (p. 183). However, it was independent Lucy who was in the position of power over dependent Alice, “strengthening and emboldening me, her presence serving as an armor I could somehow never manage to affix on my own” (p. 51). Lucy had wanted to live Alice’s life, but the latter also feasted on her friend’s strength—the power she wished she had for herself: “But her hand remained on the lion, and I was struck by the conviction that this strange little demonstration of defiance was for my benefit—to prove that she was a girl who could not be told what to do, that she was not afraid” (p. 63).

However, the truth about Lucy’s background is not disclosed (at least to Alice) until later in the novel, for Lucy, throughout her years of compulsive lying, had feigned orphanhood as well. Alice found herself caught on the horns of a dilemma after Lucy’s reappearance into her life; there is an uneasy and suspicious tone in Alice’s account of events, where she hints at Lucy’s responsibility for the uncanny series of events at Bennington. Alice’s suspicions are only heightened, however, during Lucy’s stay in Morocco, when Lucy not only admits, but displays her pathological obsession with Alice. Lucy lets out a parapraxis: “She had said the next words, ones that were never mentioned in any newspapers, by any police officer…” (p. 168). Nevertheless, Lucy keeps planning and plotting during her stay in Tangier, and she finds a local accomplice, Youssef, who helps her with further meddling into Alice’s already-troubled marriage: “She had whispered to me about John’s infidelities, reminding me of knowledge I already had possessed, though I had worked to bury it, deep” (p. 168). Ultimately, Lucy’s goal was to separate Alice

March 2019 32 from John, in order to give herself leeway to flee with her: “I thought of the past, of all the plans that we had made, and wondered how it was possible that they had been exchanged for this, for him, though of course I knew it wasn’t as simple as that” (p. 41). Lucy saw that “John was the problem, the patriarchal head that had to be cut off, the dragon that had to be slain in order to rescue the heroine” (p. 203). With that objective in her conniving mind, Lucy uses her manipulation skills to zero in on the enemy.

Mangan’s choice of the name “Lucy” may have ironic connotations—perhaps a reference to the devil, Lucifer. Even the literal meaning of the name, ‘bringer of the light’, reflects how Lucy had brought her own “light”, or life force, from Alice, feeding on it like a shadow: “They had come for me at last, my invisible shadows, which Lucy had made real” (p. 295). Then again, phonetically, the letters in the names of the two women mirror each other. In fact, the reader may sometimes wonder whether Alice and Lucy are actually two distinct people at all—or different depictions of the same person. Lucy wants the perks Alice has, to the extent that she is found stealing some of her belongings, wearing her clothes, and sometimes even using her name/identity. Lucy vampirically and parasitically feeds on Alice’s life force, on everything her friend has that she doesn’t: “She had taken everything from me—but I had let her” (p. 289). In other words, Alice “had created the lock and […] had given Lucy the key” (p. 312). Friend, alter- ego, double, shadow, or evil twin, Lucy, Alice realizes, “ was…that awful, wretched part of me that should be locked away and boarded up forever... She was the unfiltered version, the rawness that no one should ever see. She was every wicked thought, every forbidden desire turned real and visceral” (p. 293).

Many juxtapositions appear in Alice and Lucy’s symbiotic relationship: the innocent with the manipulative, goodwill and malevolence, the weak and the strong, and the dependent versus the independent. Elements of 18th century gothic literature (the area of concentration of Mangan’s PhD) appear in the haunting/haunted behavior of Alice and Lucy, and gothic literary elements are sometimes alluded to: “…it no longer felt like I was some gothic heroine trapped in a haunted castle, a patriarchal labyrinth that was impossible to ever escape. Instead I was simply Alice and she was Lucy, and there was nothing to be afraid of any longer” (p. 68). Moreover, there is more gothic charm apparent in the novel’s psychological overlay, apparent by the influence of surroundings on the characters’ minds. Oftentimes Lucy describes the merging of the dark forces within her with the external dark setting: “I had felt it: the darkness around me, transforming and moving me, making me into something that I had not intended, a monster I had not foreseen” (p. 196). Alice, on the other hand, is mentally affected by Tangier and its heat: “There’s something about a hot, sunny day that puts my teeth on edge. I always feel as though I’m teetering on the precipice of something” (p. 142).

Brimming with psychological undertones, Tangerine makes for highly inventive, entertaining, and mind stimulating storytelling. An instant success and suspenseful page-turner, the novel, with its colorful characterization, climactic plot twists, and clever language leaves the reader wondering about the nature of conscious and unconscious thoughts through the matrices of the mind. Given the novel’s many

March 2019 33 references to the psyche, sanity, trauma, psychopathy, obsession, as well as allusions to the Jungian concept of the “shadow” archetype, the reader discovers a rich psychological vein that is worth mining. Alice and Lucy are both wonderfully complex characters, with just the right dose of sanity (or lack thereof) to guide readers through their labyrinthine minds. Moreover, this bestselling psychological thriller also happens to be one of the most-awaited book-to-movie projects now—to be produced by Smokehouse Pictures, George Clooney and Grant Heslov’s production company (starring Scarlett Johanssen).

Roula-Maria Dib, PhD (University of Leeds, UK) is an Assistant Professor of English at the American University in Dubai, and editor-in-chief of Indelible, the university’s literary journal. She teaches courses in composition, literature, creative writing, and world mythology. Dr. Dib is an active researcher in the fields of literature and Jungian psychology and has a forthcoming book, Jungian Metaphor in Modernist Literature (Routledge). As a writer, she also contributes her poems, essays, and articles to several journals. The themes that pervade her work usually revolve around different aspects of human nature, ekphrasis, surrealism, alchemy, and mythology. Dr. Dib is a member of the International Association for Jungian Studies (IAJS), the Jungian Society for Scholarly studies (JSSS), and the British Association for Modernist Studies (BAMS).

March 2019 34

COLUMN

March 2019 35 Opinion: On Nuclear Energy by Alia Falaknaz

Nuclear plants are used to satisfy and generate the demands for energy and electricity at constant rates (Lessons Learned from the Fukushima Nuclear Accident 32). However, has it ever been wondered what would happen to the future generations while having radioactive substances roaming around? Due to having the risks of nuclear power outweighing the advantages, people should be aware of its threat and take a moral from some incidents that had occurred post-nuclear disasters, especially governments and nations that rely on it. The risks associated with civilian nuclear power can be felt with the occurrence of accidents which causes security concerns that must be addressed (Carrington 1). Sadly, the release of nuclear power is accompanied by deadly factors that affect innocent souls at all age groups. For example, according to Rose Kivi, the author of How to Start an Animal Rescue, “nuclear power plant disasters have contaminated humans, animals and the environment" (1). With that being said, radiation exposed post-nuclear plant incidents have many long term effects, as it causes cancer such as Leukemia and affects reproduction. Besides health issues, due to the accident at the Mayak Plutonium Facility, post the incidents, “radiation levels in the area are among the highest in the world, with natural water sources in the area still contaminated with radioactive waste” (Kivi 1). Moreover, misfortunes occur mostly due to terrible labor fallacy, inaccurate capital, and inaccurate technical qualities. For example, what caused the Chalk River accident in Canada; an incident that occurred in December 12, 1952, that is considered as the only nuclear station in Ontario that faced a major accident (Major accident at Chalk River), was an outcome due to having the wrong button released which lead to a large number of steam explosions though safety measures were taken into consideration (Kivi 1). The advantages of using civilian nuclear power lie in the fact that the country with the nuclear power can have a balance of power and can cause its enemies to flee. It could also help in other developmental projects like power generation resulting in the production of cheap electricity. However, the risks are so great that they cannot be easily ignored and must be causing great difficulty for those countries conducting civilian nuclear power. In the “Global Security Environment” article, “the United States is the country that is putting sanctions for suppressing the widespread of civilian nuclear power in order to check and restrict these countries attempting to become a nuclear power" (Dunstan 2005). It is a serious matter due to the fact that it could cause a big loss of lives since nuclear power causes harm and bloodshed to people living in a specific area. Hence, nuclear power is not the energy of the future; as Damian Carrington, an environment editor at the Guardian wisely claims, “more efficient and safer renewable energy sources will become feasible in the twenty-first century” (1). Thus, cost saving alternatives are present that would not only save innocent souls but will also beat global warming (Carrington 2). Besides financial limitations and opposing groups, countries tend to be aware of the nuclear risks and are now taking an action against it (Flavin et al. 1). Therefore, hopefully, this awareness rises globally leading this threat to end. For instance, as claimed by Christopher Flavin, Senior Vice President at the World-Watch Institute and Nicholas Lenssen a private energy analyst and a former senior researcher at the World-Watch Institute, “In the last decade, nuclear has gone from being the world’s fastest-growing energy source to its second slowest” (1). Moreover, the nuclear industry in Europe is starting to shrink due to the post- 1986 incident, when an explosion at Chernobyl lead to the release of a “poisonous cloud of radioactive dust” (2). Also, China’s wide nuclear plans are most likely to end, though it has a wide array of alternatives such as wind and solar power (4). According to Patrick Moore, chair of the Clean and Safe

March 2019 36 Energy Coalition, nuclear power has never caused harm to people, whether they are working in the plant or the public; therefore, the incidents are all a result of mechanical failure (2). Thus, the mechanical fallacies should be prevented in which this energy source is not meant to be the reliable energy mode. While having the danger exposure greater than the advantages; luckily, the nuclear share of power is falling and decreasing (Flavin et al. 1). Moreover, ambitious nuclear programs and plants are likely to decrease and fall short (Flavin et al. 4). Devastations undertook in the past, like, the Chalk River in Canada and Tokaimura in Japan (Kivi 3) should be held into consideration in which this issue should be resolved for the sake of human satisfaction and stability that serves as a necessity. In conclusion, since the demand for energy is increasing, a reliable mode of energy should be implemented in which the concept of nuclear energy should be taken into consideration in which it is not the reliable mode of energy. No matter what, a mother cannot live without her child while a child can not live without a mother, because a loss of a family member is wrecking. A promise of a resolution to this threat should be kept and all nations should end this threat. Or else, what would happen to the upcoming generations?

Alia Adil Falaknaz is an Emirati student majoring in Visual Communication – Graphic Design at The American University in Dubai. Alia has joined various competitions including Think Science, Montessori Model United Nations and INTEL ISEF, the world’s largest science fair. Her interests include baking, cooking, and fitness.

March 2019 37 Reflection: "He Is With Us Always" By Dr. Omar Sabbagh

AUD, Dubai

There is a man I don’t by any means know. I see him most days, ambling around in his dusky beige overalls, carrying a rake, say, wheeling a wheelbarrow, sometimes with a green cloth strapped over his mouth to prevent, I must assume, the dust and sundry stuffs that are the workaday hazards of his job from marring his health. Hard to estimate his age – men like that, men ostensibly at the bottom of the ladder of employ, men who work hand-by-mouth – well, they may look to be in their late forties when they are just tippling over thirty. Beneath his scrawny sandals his scrawny brown feet, bedraggled and callused no doubt. I might have said that he sported the kind of beard, long, pointy, black and screwy, one comes to associate with some kind of stereotype of tribal fashion – but there is very little sportive about the chap, his situation, that is. That’s what I might have supposed, anyway.

Because there is something, this inkling I can’t help but feel emitted from his aura after the interface of our chance meetings now and then, something almostchoric about him. As though he were a seat of wisdom, ambling around in his dusky beige overalls, a beast of proverbial burden unnoticed by all but those who must give him directions for his toil. He isn’t blind, of course, but each time I wave to him my hale-fellow-well-met he waves back, and the impression I nearly always have is one of chirpiness, almost – as though he’d an insight into things that soared with limpid grace among the birds that also flit, making small spirals in the sky. It’s as if his burly labor, day by day, has left him wholly unscathed; as if he were a prince in a pauper’s drab clothing. And perhaps after all he might be. The freest man among us, on this campus of bright peach and cool stone. Perhaps the man who really has nothing, and thus nothing to lose, perhaps he is the closest of all of us to achieving some sense of sustained happiness. I like to think of him as my talisman, a lucky-charm and a wiseacre, say, watching over me, and the rest of us too, as we bask in the shallower waters of merely mental labor in this university in the desert.

He’s not always alone of course. Sometimes, later in the day, I might see him strolling that dusky gait of his partnered by a chum. Sometimes I see him actually pairing up with another worker to orchestrate some duty that needs more than two hands and two feet. But always this placidity emitted from his whole form, bent-backed, knock-kneed, what have you. Always this lake-like aura of gold. Spent, no doubt, by his toiling business, he lacks the wherewithal I’d guess to trouble himself with the trivialities the rest of us, far better off in the material sense, take for mountains or whales of import. By being harried so, driven by the gusts of chance and penury, somehow he seems to my privileged eye to have lifted-off from the mealy earth, because, as I say, there is a birdy-ness about the man, such a lightsome stoop, such a smile, such a benignant smile. It’s as if the scraggy shape of his six feet of body have melted somehow, by some arcane mystery, into airiness, into spirit. I can’t say I admire him, because that would be to claim some kind of knowledge, of which I’ve none. Only – and yes, I think this is right –

March 2019 38 that I admire myself most of all when I watch him or greet him gently of a morning. Because the two of us are usually the first two at work on campus, I walking towards my office building, he, busy weeding, say, or shearing the apple-green grass, or piling small grey pyramids of dead leaves into big black bin-bags – while the bulk of the staff of blue-dressed custodians and white-shirted detail for security are only just arriving by minibus to start their day, or to take over from the nightshift, when that is warranted.

I must imagine that he is not married and has no children. I must imagine that because to imagine otherwise would hurt. Would it be absurd then to say that over the last two years, never once exchanging a word with the man, that I have grown to love something about him? Or, perhaps to make it clearer, something about myself when spurred by my regard of him? A simple explanation might be that he offers me, this deeply indigent man, a feeling of safety. That he exists in my line of vision to let me know that were I to fall from the heights of my too-privileged berth in this suffering world, that even then I might find the grace somehow to be happy. It’s a nice thought; a comfort.

Meanwhile, I must get on. The wife hollers for me to stop my doodling, scribbling my lot of fanciful fare, and to get on with what is due. And so she should, it’s her right. But, my friend, my unknown friend, if you are indeed listening, watching, show a kind eye, a girding, kind eye. We have a baby on the way after all, our first.

Dr. Omar Sabbagh is a widely published poet, writer and critic. His first collection and his fourth collection, are, respectively: My Only Ever Oedipal Complaint and To The Middle of Love (Cinnamon Press, 2010/17). His 5th collection, But It Was An Important Failure, is forthcoming with Cinnamon Press at the start of 2020. His Beirut novella, Via Negativa: A Parable of Exile, was published with Liquorice Fish Books in March 2016; and a riveting collection of short fictions, Dye and Other Stories,was released in September 2017. His Dubai novella, Minutes from the Miracle City is forthcoming with Fairlight Books in July 2019; and a study of the oeuvre of Professor Fiona Sampson, For the Love of Music, should be released by Anthem in 2020. He has published scholarly essays on George Eliot, Ford Madox Ford, G.K. Chesterton, Henry Miller, Lawrence Durrell, Joseph Conrad, Lytton Strachey, T.S. Eliot, Basil Bunting, Hilaire Belloc, George Steiner, and others; as well as on many contemporary poets. Many of these works are collated in his To My Mind, Or, Kinbotes: Essays on Literature, forthcoming with Whisk(e)y Tit in 2019. He holds a BA in PPE from Oxford; three MA’s, all from the University of London, in English Literature, Creative Writing and Philosophy; and a PhD in English Literature from KCL. He was Visiting Assistant Professor of English and Creative Writing at the American University of Beirut (AUB), from 2011-2013. He now teaches at the American University in Dubai (AUD), where he is Associate Professor of English.

March 2019 39

FICTION

March 2019 40 Venom in The Eye By Rohan Healy

Ra set torrid waves of heat down towards a ragged man as he inched his way through the whirling sands. He wore a white shawl that gave the feeblest protection from the stinging sand. His khopesh hung at his side swaying gently, its edges marked by dried crimson. A dripping sack hung above his Kush shield, leaving a similar trail behind him. The arrows in his quiver rattled with each heaving step. He laboured up a steep crescent shaped dune. Iment now materialised out of the baking winds. He let out a deep rasping breath, bending over to support himself. Lake Mareotis formed an opaque blue crown around this paltry town in the shadow of the jewel that was Alexandria. Sliding down this final dune, his agility at odds with his frame.

Amun be praised, never did I think this place could bring joy.

The market place he passed through was alive and writhing like a snake disturbed from its slumber. The air was dense with the earthy aroma of coriander, the blighting of sheep and the ruckus shouting of merchants. His khopesh alerting others to make way as he approached a red-faced merchant. The merchant dressed in a blue pleated garment flung a sandal at a bystander. “Don’t ever attempt to deceive me again!” The last remnants of a failed bartering.

“Masud, I had no idea that you gave others as much harassment as you do me.”

“Only to those who try selling mock-up Persian cloth at 150 drachmas a piece!” his stern demeanour unfolded as he turned toward the approaching man.

“May you live a thousand years brother. I found your ledger and cloth.” The brown sack cloth emerged from behind the strange tall man. “And the hand holding it.”

“You never knew subtlety Rudamun. May Serapis grant you this one day.” Masud laughed back while gingerly picking up the cloth.

Rudamun retorted, a grimace uncurling along his face. “That Greek imposter is no god to me.”

“Forgive me brother, I forget this of you. Pressing on here, the 75 drachmas we agreed upon?”

March 2019 41 “At least with you I can count on a decent payment.” Rudamun placed the coins in a pouch on his right side.

“Well medjay, you are one of the few left whom people can trust. Your work lets me sleep easier.”

“You speak too highly of me, but I have to bid you farewell.” Rudamun placed his hand upon his breast.

“Amun guide your path. Pass by here soon, brother.”

Rudamun looked back as Iment slowly faded into the desert’s blurred edges. An eagle soared ahead of him rising steadily into the sky, circling in a wide arc. The great protector still watched over Egypt even it patrolled the sky’s alone. Alexandria waited ahead for him. The city of enlightenment. Home of scholars. He scoffed at the idea as it crossed his mind. There is nothing so noble about that city. Far heftier than his previous mount, Masud’s parting gift trotted along the path leading to the city. His legs finally had a chance to rest as they dangled from either side of his ashen stead. How can a place be called enlightened when this crown jewel rests only on the heads of some and not others? Where Greeks look at Egyptians the same way a man does at a rat chewing straw. Look past its beautiful fountains and halls, you will see the sick disease festering in its belly. A sudden neighing and heavy thudding shook him from his vexed thoughts. Just ahead beyond the dunes and rows of palms trees, he spotted a billowing black pillar rising into the crystal blue sky. No medjay knows rest until the Duat calls him. The words echoed in him as the braced his mount for a hard gallop.

***

“Neema! Stay back there’s nothing we can do.”

An elderly man tightly gripped a struggling young girl, now wailing with such deep anger that it almost engulfed the flames that consumed the brick and thatch of their home. “It’s all my fault. Those bastards did this because I…”

“Please. Hush my child, this was not your doing my child.” He cut her off, trying to comfort her.

The man cradled the trembling girl in his arms gently, pulling her back from the biting flames that roared in hunger for more sustenance. The towering palm trees were but mere kindling to the fire, a final course to finish the great feast already enjoyed. Beyond this, a blackness like that of Anubis was rising above them. All while the flames cackled and cracked.

March 2019 42

The elderly man looked down the road and began to brace himself. As a ashen horse was galloping at great speed towards them. There were few things left not swallowed by the flames save for a rotted tilling fork.

“I mean no harm upon you. Lay down your arms elder.” His comforting tone at odds with his large and imposing figure. He strode over, placing himself between them and the eager flames. Only now did the man make out a familiar symbol etched in bronze upon the stranger’s buckle: The eye of Horus, protector of Egypt.

“You’re a medjay?” he finally managed.

“Indeed, I am. What happened here? I sense this was all no accident.”

“All I made out were masked men. Bandits. They came from the hills. Set upon us.”

The young girl’s trembling had not ceased. Rudamun could see her eyes now. They were bloodshot and her mascara had formed a thing black trail down her face. What truly intrigued him was her mumbling. “Fault.” The only word he could audibly make out among her soft mumbling

“Your arm elder, it is blackened… hold still.” Rudamun left off his horse and began wrapping a damp cloth above the man’s elbow.

The man winced in pain. “It has been a long time since I have seen this badge, last time I was much less frail and had not seen as much of this life.”

“With your age comes wisdom elder, I have very little of that. Otherwise I would not wear as many scars.” he smiled as he finished tying a knot to keep the cloth in place.

“This I cannot deny, you are a shield that must be battered and pierced so the people behind you may not know such pain.” The old man spoke solemnly looking at his arm and then towards the young girl.

“What are your names?” Rudamun asked as he stepped back to fix his saddle.

March 2019 43

“Atef and my youngest Neema.” Replied the old man weakly.

“Youngest? There were others tilled this land with you?”

“My son, Medjay. They gutted him and threw him in there.” Atef’s voice cracked as he said so.

“Osiris will see him to the fields of Aaru. Do you have anywhere to go? I will deal with whatever is needed here.”

“A sister in Iment. But medjay, they are bandits. You will not catch them. There is nothing to find here.”

“Have more faith, my friend. Now go. Take the main road.”

As the fires finally subsided and the smoke cleared later that evening, Rudamun began sifting through what wasn’t singed black. The air was still so heavy with soot that he had to lay his hand over his mouth, despite the shawl he wore. He soon came across a body still smoking from the fire, but it was in an odd place. Laid out behind the house, he could faintly make out strands of rope that bound him. Out in the front, he noticed tracks that led away from the house, but these were not just the cloven hoofs from horses. These were chariot marks.

Bandits have deep purses these days to afford such things.

“These tracks head towards the city, perhaps our dear Phylakitai has the answers I seek.”

Rudamun made his way towards his horse. As he passed by a rock he saw a cobra quickly dart into the deserts sands. It was clutching a small rodent in its jaws.

***

Alexandria was just as he remembered it. Loud and degenerate. The walls rose high into air and the cobbled main road made a spectacle of it all. Guards adorned with plate armour and red sashes gave him ill looks as he approached the gates. They escorted him towards a large white building jutting out of the great city walls. Inside, he found himself in a wide room filled with papyrus rolled up in stacks along

March 2019 44 the wood lined walls. The back of the room housed a large chair and desk with ink wells and a full jug laid out on it. In the centre stood a man in crimson armour with his arms folded. He was greeted in the usual manner by this stone-faced Greek who wore his pride a little high up.

“Egyptian, you are definably a Medjay. The few of your people who forget their place in this land.”

“You forget this land was never yours, Greek. I am here on business.” Rudamun’s voice was curt and he showed nothing one could consider as hospitable.

“Well, seeing as your coinage bears my language and your pharaoh surrounds himself with my people, I would greatly reconsider such a statement.” The man wore a smug look as he strolled over to a chair one of his men prepared for him. “Next time you will address me as Phylax Sophocles, Egyptian. Now state yourself so you may leave.”

“A farm just 5000 cubits past the walls was burned to ashes and a young man was killed. The tracks led me to your humble city.” Rudamun made sure his gaze never left that of Sophocles.

Sophocles responded in kind. “Bandits most likely. My men will search the slums of the city. I don’t need your kind disturbing the peace.” He stated bluntly.

“A murder has taken place under your watch and you treat it with such indifference.” Rudamun could feel his fists clench as the words left him, though his demeanour did not otherwise betray his sentiments.

“Egyptians are murdered all the time. Tis news to me as wind blowing from the sea in the morning.” Sophocles gestured waving his men to remove Rudamun from the room.

As Rudamun rode passed the walls, Ra was creeping slowly down into the seas beyond Alexandria. He felt a sense of bliss watching Khonsu rise from his travels in the depths. He would need the traveller’s light as he hastened towards Iment. The air was cool and the night was silent, save for his stead’s beating strides. He turned down past the dune that led to the remnants of Neema’s home. He felt a tinge of guilt creep inside him. He was a protector appointed by Horus himself to be there for the people in his stead. I am just a man: my sight does not stretch as far, and my arm cannot shield as much. In that moment he could not tell whether it was this guilt or the hunger that had soured him so.

Something whistled passed the brace on his left shoulder. He flung himself around. Four horsemen emerged from the desert sands. A slight pain on his right leg, an arrow landed ahead of him. Several

March 2019 45 more came his way but they flew wide of him. Amateurs. Instinctively his readied his bow, and tensed the string of his bow with two arrows. He was trained for this kind of combat, even from this far he saw his assailants struggling. He loosened his grip and listened as arrows sang through the air.

They found their mark.

One rider shrieked before plummeting off his horse into a dusty heap. The second barely made a sound as the arrow pierced his jugular creating small spout of maroon. The final two now drew alongside him, xiphos drawn and ready to swing. His shield blunted one awkwardly weak blow while he used an arrow to impale the other. The first man’s horse swayed away for a moment allowing Rudamun to steady himself. He unsheathed his khopesh and pushed closer to the final attacker as he twirled his blade in a downward arc. The man’s arm flew into the air, accompanied by a shrill cry that echoed in the winds. Rudamun gave heed to end his pain by sending him plunging into the sand. His body contorting into a misshapen mess upon the sands. He noted something in the dark brown of the sand as he looked to his assailant. A bright red.

***

Neema sat staring out into the night sky. It was all that consoled her. She had refused all offers of food and she could not bring herself to even fall asleep. Her mind was enveloped with haze and a tangled web, refusing to recede into the shadows. Kames’ face drenched in red. His cries as boots and fists drove him to his knees. The sick smile that crossed his face, as he slit Kames’ throat. Vermillion streaking and mudding the sand where he lay. How the men had howled like wild dogs when they set their family home ablaze. The way he spoke softly to her as it all fell apart. “This is what happens when a little Egyptian whore fails to keep her mouth shut.” The smell of his beer-soaked mouth and the glint of his eyes.

Her father rushed over to her as she again began to tremble and seize up for the fifth time today.

“It’s ok, Neema. I promise on my life that you will be safe. Your brother watches us now. I know he does.” His words were not as assuring as he felt them to be.

“It’s never going to be safe. Not after what happened. I should have said nothing. I…”

She was cut off by a large imposing figure coming in from the doorway of the small clay house. Rudamun stepped in and dropped to a knee in front of Neema and her father.

March 2019 46

“Whatever has befallen you involves the guards from Alexandria. What happened Neema? I cannot proceed without this knowledge. Please.”

She looked at him with a fear and trepidation that almost shook Rudamun’s stoicism. Her voice grew more fractured and hoarse with each word.

“Father had me and my brother travel to the market in Alexandria … we had to sell that year’s harvest. One of the guards kept … staring. They pulled us aside into a guard house. One held my brother down, while the other … he ripped…” She broke down into a heap on the floor, sobbing wildly.

Her aunt rushed into the room to her niece. Holding her tightly, easing her up. She shot a look towards Rudamun, staring deeply into his eyes. He felt himself tense and his throat grew tight at this girl. The room suddenly sunk away and time itself appeared still.

“Make those snakes pay.”

Atef placed his hand on Rudamun, ushering him out of the house. The house was on the outskirts of the village, facing towards the great Mareotis. The winds from the lake almost calmed the fires that raged inside. Almost.

“I am assuming you met the one called Sophocles?” the elderly man asked timidly. “He was that boy’s father.” Atef’s voice was low and anger sifted through like steam in a furnace. “Vile bastards the both.”

“So, it is clearer now. But surely that is not enough for him to rob you of your home and son?” Rudamun’s voice and head lowered in thought.

“It wouldn’t be … If Kames had not convinced his sister to go to the nomarch of Alexandria. I don’t know what he expected … he was much like you, Medjay. Unafraid.” He voiced croaked as tears traced down his furrowed cheeks, sobbing weakly into the night.

“I must go, old man. I hope that Amun will grant you peace before your time has passed. Tell Neema I bid her farewell.” Rudamun helped the man to his feet and embraced him before heading towards his horse.

These Greeks will know what it means to feel fear so strongly it rips apart their hearts. I will see the face Anubis, but I will make sure I am not alone. Horus protect them.

March 2019 47

As his horse began to pick up speed along the dusty road, Rudamun saw an eagle dive down into the black desert beyond him, it was clutching a writhing snake in its talons what kind he could not make out. Suddenly in flash he saw them both plummet from the sky and disappear into the sands below.

Medjay only knew peace when the Duat called them.

Rohan Healy is a senior student of International Studies at the American University in Dubai. Rohan was born in South Africa and moved to Dubai in 2006. He has always loved two things in book format: history and fantasy. He has also been a huge fan of the Lord of the Rings and an avid history enthusiast since is childhood. Rohan likes writing that connects dots and tells bigger stories but with a personal, lived-in tale. He hopes that people who read his poems or stories get a sense that are reading beyond words, taking a few short steps into an instance, a time and place far from where they are.

March 2019 48

POETRY

March 2019 49 Art of the Mind: Ocean Night By Fadeke Lipide

One could barely notice, the growling sounds of the winds and the clattering of the rain. the laughter, music, and dance of the ocean night club suppressed the dreadful cries of the night. The Ocean night club, the talk of the town in the 1930's, the glitz and glam of that decade. Hudreds would fill its door, just to get a taste of its extravaganza, its mystifying burlesque shows, the never-ending supplies, from Moet et Chandon to cognac, its ever-entertaining negro bands, the river run of gorgeous women, in stunning evening gowns covered in jewels and of course, its most famous attraction, Miss Celeste du Blac-- her voice as extraordinary as her name. A true beauty, lips red as blood, skin flawless as daisies and a beauty mark adding sass to her wicked smile. Men would line up in awe just to catch an inch of her beauty. One could tell only the who's who came to this club, from dukes and ladies to military officers and estate holders. One had to be something to be in there. But who is he, the man in black, who sucked on his pipe at the corner of the room, known famously as "the man in black"? He didn't seem trapped in time like the rest. He blended in and yet he didn't, like a needle in a haystack--likewise a hippo in a haystack-- he was a mystery stuck in time. His eyes looked dreary like that of a count, however, built in the mold of a military man but dressed like a lord, so was that him? Lord? Count? Or military man? His mystery eludes me, he engulfs mystery. He is mystery. His eyes, unlike the others', are not focused on Celeste. No, his eyes pierce through the windows of Ocean Night, onto the wet and scraping streets. He watches a slender figure underneath the streetlight. The silhouette, seemingly female, was shrouded in black,

March 2019 50 her face hidden beneath the umbrella as she stares into the light. Who is she? Why does he find her interesting? What is she to him? Unanswered questions passed down from decade to decade, auction to auction, house, hotel, and...repeat. Forever unanswered.

Fadeke Lipede is from Nigeria. When she was younger, her mother introduced her to the world of literature, which she instantly fell in love with. Fadeke’s realization that she could stretch her imagination to unparalleled heights vaccinated her, for she soon became obsessed with telling her own stories, showing her ability to create and seeing how far she can truly stretch her imagination for the world to see. One of her main goals in poetry and writing is for her readers not to merely be pulled by the strong emotions within her poems, but to also feel the transport to a new world. She doesn’t have a specific preference for a poetry type, for she likes to dabble with various styles.

March 2019 51 The Other One By Maryam A. Wajdi

Every now and then I would find him; An admirer of a particular piece; Hanging on the grand infinite ivory. He would stand at the center of The gallery And gaze at the intricate picture on the canvas. His eyes would carry little Pieces of stars as they watched the artwork in complete Awe. His eyes would follow every details Every line As his fingers would brush Against the many His mouth, lifted crookedly As he was smirking, As though he was teasing the picture. Every now and then He would look away then Glance at the painting From a distance. One day I stood exactly where He would. I had not seen him for So long a time. But then I noticed that Sophisticated hat.

Maryam A. Wajdi is a young Emirati poet, currently doing her Bachelors in Business Management and a minor in English Literature in the American University in Dubai. Her poems are scattered pieces of herself; stories stemmed from other stories. She is an admirer of all forms of art and aspires to make a difference in the lives of people around her through her works of literature.

March 2019 52 Man, Elephant, Water By Mayar Ibrahim

At the top of the food chain There exists one species: man. Man paved his way through weapons and destruction; Yet without his weapons, man can't function. Mankind can't let a day go by without violence, May it be violence against other species or their own.

Ivory tusks, legs as thick as logs, Ears so big they could be butterfly wings, And a trunk for a nose to top it all. Although it is known to be friendly An elephant can undoubtedly kill when angry.

A planet so round embodies 71% of water on its surface An entity so lifeless Yet necessary for existence A home for many but a home-wrecker too. For water is not only necessary for life--but is a leader for death

Man pollutes Earth and hunts elephants With guns and destruction intentions Elephants retaliate-- By killing man for his actions...Water? It can kill both man and beast As the waves rise high and tides pull them in like quicksand, it covers them, silencing their struggle as crashing waves drown them

March 2019 53 Coffee of the Day By Dana Hachwa

There is a stain of brown on the floor, over there. Look closely and see, streaks of what made it out to be anything but a stain of brown on the floor, over there.

Not long before the stain, it was a cherry of desire.

He knew it contained all that He aspired to be, red and ripe and raving, pick me!

He ripped its skin, coaxed out its core, choked it with fire until it cracked once, then once more.

Glistening with the colour of earth, He let it breathe; for a moment. Then with pressure and powerful grate He ground it, crushed it, released its breath from within and

drowned it. Drenched too, He watched: with water it was entire and clean. Touch, taste, scent and sound pouring out; better than ever Bean. And after toasting, He would rest —

until by a reason unfair, it fell in a stain,

over there.

March 2019 54 Forget By Rohan Healy

There they are now, seen so clearly

three boys

two lives

one tale

So why did I let go, why did I forget.

Gaunt, broken, smiling as he walked the halls

Faces that meet him beamed with fright.

Tears still etched in their cheeks.

Be happy I am why aren’t you?

One day I will see your joy again

*

“It will be over soon my angel”

A cry echoing in every heart,

March 2019 55 They pierced his back, cutting in deep

Saying, we will save you dear boy

You will not break

You will

never break

*

A friend goes first.

The friend that had a chance,

What hope did he have?

In blood he would wither

No

In blood he would live

*

One year

I am sorry,

I forgot

March 2019 56