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Read this essay in Arabic here. This piece is part of a limited series on shifting narratives in Syrian literature, guest edited by novelist Rosa Yassin Hassan. In 2015, the Nobel Prize for Literature was awarded to the Belarusian writer Svetlana Alexievich, whose work mixes narration, journalistic techniques and direct observation, recording testimonies and documentation.  Alexievich was among the main voices representing an international narrative experience which cemented that literary genre: the documentary novel. This genre influenced many narrative experiences across the world, includi...

Jacques Derrida described the act of embrace as a space in which the self touches the other. Did I really lose my body or did I re-appropriate it by alienating... I stare around me at the tired faces concealing maps of Syrian cities in their lines. I drown in sorrow, fearing deportation. Ours is a world of paper in which trees have turned into packages containing the sorted names of people wanted by the intelligence branches. The whiteness of the papers turns into blood stains dripping onto the roots. They are cut and transformed into secret files grasped by informants, intelligence off...

Female detainees face social stigma after Syrian prison “I often tried to talk to my husband to figure out why he absolutely resented me. After repeated rejections, he told me honestly, ‘I can longer come near you. I cannot even look at you. I don’t know what happened to you in prison, and nothing can guarantee that nobody has touched you’.” 12 February 2021 Lama Rageh holds a BA in Journalism and Media from Damascus University, and an MA in Media from Beirut Arab University. She works as a freelancer for several outlets, in addition to being a human rights activist with a...

Read this article in the original Arabic here. It was after midnight, and my hands were shaking when I woke up from a terrible nightmare. In it, I dug a rusty sickle into the neck of a man whose face was obscured. I stabbed him repeatedly to cut off his jugular veins, and the blood gushed out. It stained my face and tainted everything red.  The sky was painted black and white. It shrunk and turned into a long, dark tunnel through which the man with obscured features walked. From over his shoulders, a yellow light shone on a soiled wall and made it look cheap and flawed. I leapt towards the m...