Editor’s note: It’s November <strong>and</strong> I am <strong>in</strong> Beirut. It hasn’t ra<strong>in</strong>ed yet, not <strong>the</strong> way it used to, <strong>the</strong> way it ra<strong>in</strong>ed when I was a child, <strong>in</strong> Beirut, where November was really Autumn, <strong>and</strong> we would wear light sweaters <strong>and</strong> carry an umbrella <strong>and</strong> dream of roasted chestnuts <strong>and</strong> hot chocolate any time soon. Beirut is still warm-ish <strong>and</strong> it is November <strong>and</strong> <strong>the</strong>re are people on <strong>the</strong> beach <strong>and</strong> people <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> mounta<strong>in</strong>s <strong>and</strong> people on <strong>the</strong> streets dem<strong>and</strong><strong>in</strong>g <strong>the</strong>ir rights for water, for light, for warmth, for meds, for clean streets, for work, for love; mostly for a type of love that means that we are all safe, that means that we are all safe here. But we are not all safe here. Nor are we safe elsewhere, where <strong>the</strong>re’s war <strong>and</strong> occupation <strong>and</strong> racism <strong>and</strong> apar<strong>the</strong>id <strong>and</strong> all k<strong>in</strong>ds of discrim<strong>in</strong>ation, <strong><strong>in</strong>side</strong> our homes <strong>and</strong> TV screens. There is loss here, <strong>and</strong> <strong>the</strong>re is loss <strong>the</strong>re, across <strong>the</strong> border, <strong>the</strong> sea <strong>and</strong> <strong>the</strong> street. “Sad l<strong>and</strong> of monks & soldiers/ garden<strong>in</strong>g <strong>the</strong> world’s light” says Kenneth E. Harrison, Jr. <strong>in</strong> his poem “Elegy.” But <strong>the</strong>re is also survival. There is always a protest for survival. And <strong>the</strong>re is art. There is always art. “Art <strong>in</strong>spires peace, encourages us to be k<strong>in</strong>d to each o<strong>the</strong>r” says Muntaha, a character <strong>in</strong> Marguerite G. Bouvard’s poem “Hidden Stories.” In Ze<strong>in</strong>a Hashem Beck’s poem “Beirut Wall, August 24, 2015” written about <strong>the</strong> protests that happened <strong>in</strong> Beirut this summer, she says “I will draw. I will dance. I will dig / start with<strong>in</strong> my heart.” A character <strong>in</strong> Philip Metres’ poem “Letter (Never Sent) to Volodya <strong>and</strong> Natasha” says, “Art, you said, was a sacred place, rest<strong>in</strong>g by a river, where a person could feel some 1 th<strong>in</strong>gs come clearer. Not better, but clearer.” In <strong>the</strong> sixth issue of Sukoon, I br<strong>in</strong>g you such art that perhaps makes th<strong>in</strong>gs clearer, if not better. Art <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> form of poetry <strong>and</strong> stories <strong>and</strong> essays, by new voices <strong>and</strong> new artists, as well as those who’ve been published <strong>in</strong> previous issues of Sukoon. I am happy to br<strong>in</strong>g you Sukoon’s first book review, by Imene Bennani <strong>and</strong> Sukoon’s first play! Two plays actually; one by Shebana Coelho entitled “Are You Safe?” <strong>and</strong> one by Pam Lask<strong>in</strong>, entitled “RONIT AND JAMIL,” both excerpts, both related to Palest<strong>in</strong>e. Sukoon is proud to collaborate with Arabian Stories - a literary project that tries to br<strong>in</strong>g toge<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong> Arabic <strong>and</strong> Western world through expression <strong>and</strong> translation. With<strong>in</strong> this issue, you’ll f<strong>in</strong>d <strong>the</strong> English translation of <strong>the</strong>ir literary contest’s w<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g story, “The Beauty <strong>and</strong> <strong>the</strong> Gazelle.” I also br<strong>in</strong>g you a special <strong>in</strong>terview with a special poet, writer, editor, teacher <strong>and</strong> pa<strong>in</strong>ter; <strong>the</strong> wonderful Etel Adnan, with whom I’ve had <strong>the</strong> pleasure <strong>and</strong> privilege to correspond. Adnan lives <strong>in</strong> Paris right now <strong>and</strong> I <strong>in</strong>clude an <strong>in</strong>terview where she tells about her work, her plans, <strong>and</strong> her optimistic thoughts about a chang<strong>in</strong>g Arab world; a world where a civil society will always exist <strong>and</strong> will always w<strong>in</strong>, even if that victory doesn’t happen today. I <strong>in</strong>clude some of her artwork (exhibited <strong>in</strong> Galerie Lelong <strong>in</strong> Paris) as well as a previously unpublished excerpt <strong>from</strong> a poem she is currently work<strong>in</strong>g on, entitled “Night.” Adnan says that she’s always believed that we were born to spend our time writ<strong>in</strong>g poetry. (What a different world we would be liv<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> if that were <strong>the</strong> case.) I couldn’t agree more, could you? REWA ZEINATI
F<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g <strong>the</strong> words, oil on canvas 100 x 75 cm by A. Reed Garner 2
Change language