The Arsonists' City

by Hala Alyan

It’s easy to costume the earth for grief, and tonight the birds perched upon the tangled electricity wires look like mourners in their black and white feathers, staring down at the concrete refugee camps without song.

The day races quickly to its nucleus.

It’s like a fishhook in Mazna’s lungs, something yanking her breath in quick, shallow bursts, moving her toward the spotlight, the stage’s glossy floor, the woman’s fierce gaze as she sweeps her eyes over the audience as though they aren’t there, as though all that’s in front of her is more rain and dirt. As though all of this is real.

They’re involved, however indirectly, in every single political thing that’s happened since the Ottomans. Each country had its oppressor—the British in Palestine, the French in Lebanon. The Westerners drew the maps. They’re the reason the streets in Beirut have French names; they’re the ones who set up a parliamentary structure that distributed power unfairly. They’re the reason Palestinians arrived here in the thousands in ’48, then again in ’67. I want you all to remember that as we rehearse: The biggest war criminals are always offstage. They’re continents away.”

The sea appears like a chaperone, the water lavender-blue in the late-morning light.

It is a pain so deep, it seems specific, like a color, something that can be smeared on a canvas and hung in museums.

The war continued to chug along like a faithful engine, destroying the city.

skinny as a minute.”