Special Edition: 70th Anniversary of the Nakba

INTRODUCTION TO SPECIAL EDITION

By Lara Sheehi

LaraI am honored to be the guest editor of this special edition of the Psychoanalyst Activist which commemorates the 70th Anniversary of the Nakba. Nakba, or “the Catastrophe” is the Arabic term that refers to the dispossession of more than 700,000 Palestinians in 1948 by Zionist forces.

Seventy years later, Trump’s White House contravened long standing international norms, UN Security Counsel Resolutions, and official US policy by moving the United States Embassy to Jerusalem.  Finding kindred political visions with the ethno-nationalist Netanyahu regime, Trump’s administration punctuated the prejudice of this unilateral decision by announcing that the United States embassy in Jerusalem will be inaugurated on the anniversary date of the Nakba.  Continue article

MODIFYING SOME SETTINGS ON THE SMART PHONE’S CAMERA

By Mustafa Qossoqsi

تعديلات على شرح بعض خصائص كاميرا الهاتف المحمولmustafa-qosqase

Auto: وهو التصوير الذي سيقوم بتعديل كل شيء من تلقاء نفسه مع إمكانية التصوير بشكل سريع، خاصةّ في حالات الموت المباغت أو انهيار المباني والمعاني على رؤوس ساكنيها.

Beauty Face: يسمح بتصوير الوجه وتحسينه عند التصوير بمقطعٍ عامودي، مناسب لوجه يطلع من الركام ملطّخاً بالدم والغبار وبعيون مغمضة نهائياً عن تفاهة الشرّ وتكنو لجيّته البدائيّة الحديثة جداً.

BestPhoto: يتيح إمكانية اختيار أفضل صورة من مجموعة صور، لتسويق أفضل لموتٍ عنيف على شاشات تتجمّل مهرولة إلى موعدها القادم مع ضحايا أكثر ألقاً فوتوغرافيّاً وأقلّ شبقاً للحريّة.

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THE NAKBA IN BROOKLYN: HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT

By Christine Schmidt

001I&M201712284T0A9804I knew that Mrs. Daoud was Palestinian Bedouin and her husband identified as a Jordanian. They were living in their Brooklyn house when I moved next door in 1984. They welcomed me as their new neighbor.

We practically raised our children together. Mrs. Daoud had eight and I had three. Our children ran between our houses, playing on the swings in my back yards or riding bikes on the sidewalks out front. They played, laughed, teased and generally really liked each other. In good weather, Mrs. Daoud always sat on the patio out front. She was the matron of our block. As soon as she saw me she would motion for me to come visit and watch our children together. For hours. Continue article

IT WAS A WARM APRIL DAY IN 1948 IN JERUSALEM

By Lama Z. Khouri

234503-1192125-1_320x400.jpgMy mother is finally mustering the strength to tell me about the day she left the home of her birth.

“I am 12 years old.  Nadia [her sister], our neighbor Lily, and I are playing hopscotch in front of the house. Your grandfather and grandmother are going in and out loading the car and getting ready to head to Amman. Our dog is strangely excited or agitated, I’m not sure which. Every time a suitcase is loaded in the car, she barks at the bag and her whole body shakes, as if the bag is a collaborator in some conspiracy. Maybe she knows what we do not anticipate.”

She pauses.

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SLOUCHING TOWARDS SALEM: REFLECTIONS ON ZIONISM AND THE “NEW ANTI-SEMITISM”

By Martin Kemp

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My first public intervention regarding Israel/Palestine appeared in the International Journal of Psycho-Analysis in 2005. I wrote a letter challenging the IJPA’s dismissal of the academic boycott of Israel on the familiar grounds that politics should not be allowed to intrude into the realm of scientific endeavour[i]. The sacking of two Israeli academics from the editorial boards of international journals had been the precipitating cause of the ‘special editorial’[ii]. Its wording, published simultaneously in ten psychoanalytic journals, for me exemplified a determination not to engage with a tragic and enduring crisis for which the West had a particular responsibility. Rather than effectively reinforcing the status quo by denouncing the boycott, I urged that the profession ought to engage with the arguments for and against taking action[iii].

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SOUVENIRS

By Hala Alyan

160322.0057-EditI.

Wind churning a daub of Haifa seawater into my eye. Tomorrow,

a strip of sunburn,

skin peeling auburn.

 

II.

Word scuffing my throat at Qalandiya checkpoint

as a man nods and

click rotates metal bars. Word rasps at Ramallah windows facing

always

the burly settlements—No—even during autumn

weddings. Word nests like a sunflower seed between

teeth and only

later do I spit it out

beneath a harvest moon in Manhattan.

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