I would argue that London is the greatest place on earth if you are a Muslim. The vast metropolis is an eclectic swathe of cultures, communities, faiths and fashions all living together in various states of harmony. Every tribe, tradition, sect and persuasion of Islam is represented in the British capital.
Arts & Letters
In my husband’s suitcase there are sixteen different kinds of homemade jams and pickles, mostly made by his five older sisters, some of fruits that do not even grow outside of Iran. One such is the Cedrate citrus: an orange without segments.
Chefchaouen at dusk. Africa pink solitude, lavender like Paris in the snow. Does he remember his birth high in the Atlas with silver bracelets but no chains? The centre of freedom being bevelled.
Two poems by George Szirtes.
I once knew a woman who loved a swan. She loved all swans, and geese and ducks and water hens too, but most of all she loved a swan she called Satin.
My father is Libyan, my mother English, and I grew up in Britain. I guess I grew up half Libyan but never really knew what that meant.
When you are on a plane, trapped in the clouds, you are nowhere. Not really nowhere: you are somewhere, a moving point in space mapped by some sophisticated cartographic technology, but you are detached from everything that transforms spaces into places; in a sense you are detached from reality, it is suspended like you within an atmospheric cushion.
Two poems by Mohja Kahf.
A poem by Mark Gonzales.
At dawn the view of Damascus was glorious. I loved to watch the sun rise whilst Kurdish pigeon fanciers flew their little flecks of silver over the green minarets that illuminated the city.