The Queer Arab Glossary

A Map of Absence presents the finest poetry and prose by Palestinian writers over the last seventy years. Featuring writers in the diaspora and those living under occupation, these striking entries pay testament to one of the most pivotal events in modern history – the 1948 Nakba.

This unique, landmark anthology includes translated excerpts of works by major authors such as Mahmoud Darwish, Ghassan Kanafani and Fadwa Tuqan alongside those of emerging writers, published here in English for the first time. Depicting the varied aspects of Palestinian life both before and after 1948, their writings highlight the ongoing resonances of the Nakba.

An intimate companion for all lovers of world literature, A Map of Absence reveals the depth and breadth of Palestinian writing.

The publication of The Right to Maim by Jasbir K. Puar in 2017 was critical to advancing studies on disability and to further articulating how the body figures in the nexus of capacity and debility across racializing and extractive neoliberal lines. It offered a complex and rigorous anti-capitalist account of disability that is useful to both scholarly work and political and social organizing. However, despite its paramount contribution to scholarship on Palestine, delivered by its scathing analysis of the Israeli biopolitical policy—its right to maim—in how the injured Palestinian body is produced and reproduced, its reception was difficult, and hard to stomach. It cohered a political logic in writing before it was visibly evident on the ground. In the moment and aftermath of the Great March of Return (2018-19), Puar’s offerings became much harder to ignore, as the event crystallized a mass maiming campaign of Palestinian protesters inside the edges of the militarized borders of Gaza.

The occasion of this publication by Bilna’es marks the first translation into Arabic of the chapter “Will Not Let Die”: Debilitation and Inhuman Biopolitics in Palestine, alongside the postscript of The Right to Maim. Not simply a reissue of previously published work or a translation, This Death is Not One includes a new preface from Jasbir K. Puar revisiting the right to maim from within this moment of genocide in Gaza that interrogates the new vectors of living and dying under settler-colonialism, and how maiming, in fact, speaks of extermination; an introduction by Nasser Abourahme reflecting on the book’s stakes in the present and its reception in the past, alongside searing analysis of genocide in excess of the law, and what this reveals and forecloses in how we understand the juridical body and militancy in the wake of Zionism; and original drawings by Xaytun Ennasr that inscribe a relation between land and body mapped through cosmological patterns tracing the relation between martyrs, who are referred to as moons, and the moon, a symbol for martyrdom in Palestine.

Jasbir K. Puar is Distinguished Faculty of Arts Professor in the Social Justice Institute at the University of British Columbia, Extraordinary Professor in the Women’s and Gender Studies Department at the University of the Western Cape in Cape Town, South Africa, and Professor Emerita at Rutgers University where she was faculty in the Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies Department for 23 years. Puar is the author of the award-winning books: The Right to Maim: Debility, Capacity, Disability (2017), and Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times (2007).

Nasser Abourahme is a writer and teacher, and is currently assistant professor at Bowdoin College. He’s the author of The Time beneath the Concrete: Palestine between Camp and Colony (Duke University Press, 2025), which was awarded the 2025 Palestine Book Award.

Xaytun Ennasr is an artist and designer. She works across experimental video games, paintings, prints, ceramics, installations, and text. She often uses science fiction, folklore, and radical softness as affective tools for revolutionary cultural production, specifically Palestinian liberation and sovereignty. Her work often deals with questions of land, cartography, transness, gender, and the living environment.

Drawings by Xaytun Ennasr

Translation to Arabic:

“Living in Genocide” by Jasbir K. Puar, translated by The Archilogue

“Our names, our remains” by Nasser Abourahme, translated by The Archilogue

The Right to Maim, Chapter 4: “Will not let die: Debilitation and Inhuman Biopolitics in Palestine ” and the The Right to Maim Postscript by Jasbir K. Puar, translated by Bekriah Mawasi

“With this collection of texts, reflections, questions, documents, we invite our readers, colleagues, and peer organizations to engage in difficult, often fraught, discussions about sexual abuse in art spaces. We do not want these conversations to always start at zero, as if a lot of work around sexual abuse hasn’t been done already. There is copious activism, scholarship, and creativity on this topic, if one wants to find it. What this publication would like to do is contribute to the work that has already been done and to be a waypost toward what remains to be done.”

Commissioned and edited by: Karim Kattan and Mai Abu ElDahab
Contributors are Adam HajYahia, Habiba Effat, Karim Kattan, Mai Abu ElDahab, Marnie Slater, Naira Antoun, and Salma El Tarzi

Notes compiled and written by Ahmed Medhat, Marina Samir, Nana Abuelsoud, and Salma El Tarzi, with edits and comments by Sahar Mandour
Translation from Egyptian Arabic of “Notes on Justice” by Yasmine Haj
Copyedited and proofread by Jenifer Evans
Designed by Loraine Furter and Naïma Ben Ayed

A compilation of recipes from the Arab world that were presented by artists for Mophradat's online cooking show Lentil Space.

Adapted from its namesake online program produced by Mophradat, co-curated by Mai Abu ElDahab and Reem Shilleh, from 2021 to 2023, this book is a celebration of the varied cuisine of the Arab world and its relationship with inherited food practices and the cultures of cooking and talking about food.

With contributions by Adam HajYahia and Haitham Haddad, Deena Abdelwahed, Laila Hida with Amine Lahrach, Mohamed Abdelkarim with Abla elBahrawy, Nadah El Shazly, amongst many others, this cookbook includes recipes chosen and prepared by the artists in an intimate setting coupled with stories both personal and about their art practice. 

The My Comrade Anthology collects pages from past issues of My Comrade selected by Linda Simpson, printed in a substantial 256-page volume on newsprint.

My Comrade was an underground gay culture zine that set itself apart from the deluge of Xeroxed zines popping up in New York in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Through parody of both mainstream tabloid magazines and the self-serious gay press, a campy and ironic sensibility, and radical left sympathies and sloganeering, My Comrade captured the zeitgeist of the gay downtown scene. Publishing 11 issues between 1987 and 1994, and three issues since, My Comrade documents the last years of underground gay culture before marriage equality and representation at elite levels of American society became the primary drivers of gay politics and aesthetic production. My Comrade was briefly revived from 2004 to 2006, and again on the occasion of the exhibition “My Comrade Magazine: Happy 35th Gay Anniversary” at Howl! in 2022.

Maura Modeya’s SAPPHO TERROR is a book haunted—by empire, by sleeplessness, by Sappho herself. In it, queerness becomes both the agent of terror and its object. “I want to be consumed. I want to disappear twice.” Extending the experiments of Mayer, Lonidier, and Stein, Modeya’s poems are as much about desire as they are about violence. They let us in on a secret: “Logic sometimes is so disgusting.” At once delirious and hyperalert, performance and document of a performance, SAPPHO TERROR disrupts the routines of everyday life from within. “Tending to the eros of writing something down.”

A fist is something that blooms inside a lover, a hand held up in revolutionary camaraderie, and the weapon of bare-knuckle combat. In Maura Modeya’s SAPPHO TERROR, the poet probes, in a language that possesses an addictive deliquescence, the body as policy and the devotional as daily, where intimacy is all at once risked, tenderized, and disciplined. We begin in a space of betweenness—between street and bed, between conquest and abandon—and are then submerged into tidal pools of sleeplessness where the poet is overtaken, exquisitely, by forces beyond themselves. Sculpted into vigilant word-reliquaries, these poems exalt the femi-themme of the night while holding fast to danger. Inside this edge-space lives the chasm—the danger that lives in the distance from one edge to another—where sex, politics, and liminal states of consciousness collide, exposing how power is enforced, negotiated, and sometimes utterly undone through the body. —Valerie Hsiung

In SAPPHO TERROR Maura Modeya drifts with eros between the “war intestine,” and a restless dreamscape where desire demands disorientation and the rapture of invasion teeters in tension between queer love and the horrors of militaristic and domestic terrorism. Modeya offers us a vulnerable and familiar sorrow: “Why when I want to speak of love, violence surfaces?” In communion with Sappho’s fragments—those invocations of desire intensified by their historical devastation—Modeya’s poems project that eros is to want is to risk.

Leaning into the “deathless language” of queer love, Modeya allows herself to be haunted by the unreasonable logic of eros and finds herself caught between an insomnia that threatens the poet’s coherence of self, and a sleep that risks waking to the repulsive logics adorning our daily violences.In striking and visceral exhaustion, this book performs the desire of possession—by a lover, by language, by loss. SAPPHO TERROR brings us into the poet’s rapture, one that is profoundly balanced between the paradoxical and perilous forces of eros. —Serena Chopra

What arises out of sleeplessness? In SAPPHO TERROR, all boundaries fall away into ritual. There is a permeability, an eros, a freedom from all structures and institutions, even from our own self. Our human guardrails fall away to a place where we forget the boots on our necks, that our money buys weapons for the state, or even that we are separate unique beings. Is it wrong to forget, or is it a healing? Perhaps both. Modeya says that in sleeplessness, “to submit means to surrender into what is wanted so badly.” In the face of terror, our letting go is a kind of purity. It tells us we can travel beyond repression, not to escape, but to reach the most natural state of our being, even before survival. It is a reminder of life. —Samuel Ace

Maura Modeya’s SAPPHO TERROR takes back Plato’s Cave for the dykes. In these poems eros’ shadows reign sovereign: language is chained and casts haptic forms onto Modeya’s bedroom wall lit by Sappho’s famous fires. These poems join her chorus of “You Burn Me” with the desperate velocity only the insomniac knows. Modeya’s verse is exquisite and relentless, creaking out of the dead of night, bargaining for the possibility of touch. An assembly of aching towardness, SAPPHO TERROR is part elegy, part manifesto, part love letter that sabotages the war intestines we live in order to undivide us from our desire. —Rosie Stockton

Lambda Literary Award winning poet and essayist and long-time disability justice advocate Leah Piepzna-Samarasinha writes passionately and personally about disability justice in her latest book of essays. Discussing subjects such as the creation of care webs, collective access, and radically accessible spaces, she also imparts her own survivor skills and wisdom based on her years of activist work, empowering the disabled - in particular, those in queer and/or BIPOC communities - and granting them the necessary tools by which they can imagine a future where no one is left behind.

Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, Reynaldo Rivera took personal photos of the Los Angeles that he lived in and knew: a world of cheap rent, house parties, subversive fashion, underground bands, and a handful of Latino gay and transvestite bars: Mugi’s, The Silverlake Lounge, and La Plaza. Most of these bars are long closed and many of the performers have died. But in Rivera’s photographs, these men and women live on in a silvery landscape of makeshift old-style cinematic glamour, a fabulous flight from unacceptable reality. 

As a teenager, Rivera took refuge in used bookstores and thrift stores, where he discovered old  photo books of Mexican film stars and the work of Lisette Model, Brassai, and Bresson. Inspired, he bought a camera and began  photographing people at his hotel. In 1981 he moved to Echo Park and began taking photos for the LA Weekly. 

This book is an ensemble of almost 200 images selected by Hedi El Kholti and Lauren Mackler spanning more than two decades in Los Angeles and Mexico. The  book also includes Luis Bauz’s story, “Tatiana,” about one of the  subjects of these photographs; a critical essay on Rivera’s work by Chris Kraus; and a novella-length conversation between Rivera and his  friend and contemporary Vaginal Davis about their lives, work, fantasies, and collective histories.

Edited by Hedi El Kholti and Lauren Mackler
With Luis Bauz, Vaginal Davis and Chris Kraus

"I've lived a completely ordinary life, so much that I don't know how to write a transgender or queer or Appalachian story, because I don't feel like I've lived one.... Though, in searching for ways to write myself in my stories, maybe I can find power in this ordinariness."

Raised in southeast Ohio, Stacy Jane Grover would not describe her upbringing as "Appalachian." Appalachia existed farther afield—more rural, more country than the landscape of her hometown.

Grover returned to the places of her childhood to reconcile her identity and experience with the culture and the people who had raised her. She began to reflect on her memories and discovered that group identities like Appalachian and transgender are linked by more than just the stinging brand of social otherness.

In Tar Hollow Trans, Grover explores her transgender experience through common Appalachian cultural traditions. In "Dead Furrows," a death vigil and funeral leads to an investigation of Appalachian funerary rituals and their failure to help Grover cope with the grief of being denied her transness. "Homeplace" threads family interactions with farm animals and Grover's coming out journey, illuminating the disturbing parallels between the American Veterinary Association's guidelines for ethical euthanasia and the World Professional Association for Transgender Health's guidelines for transgender care.

Together, her essays write transgender experience into broader cultural narratives beyond transition and interrogate the failures of concepts such as memory, metaphor, heritage, and tradition. Tar Hollow Trans investigates the ways the labels of transgender and Appalachian have been created and understood and reckons with the ways the ever-becoming transgender self, like a stigmatized region, can find new spaces of growth.