تخيل الفنان البولندي إيجور دوبرولسكي شكل إعلانات الشركات العالمية التي تدعم الاحتلال في حربها على غزة. فقد جمع هذا الفنان الصور المأساوية للحرب ووضعها إعلانات في شوارع وارسو رسالة منه لمقاطعة هذه العلامات التجارية.
“The lover of beauty ends by finding it everywhere about him, a vein of gold in the basest of ores; by handling fragmentary masterpieces, though stained or broken, he comes to know a collector’s pleasure in being the sole seeker after pottery which is commonly passed by.”
— Marguerite Yourcenar. Memoirs of Hadrian. First published in French in 1951. Translated from the French by Grace Frick in collaboration with the author. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1954.
“a community without romance risks being brutish and crass, superficial and brittle, cruel and even muderous. . . i don’t mean just romantic romance. i don’t just mean erotic romance. . . i mean the romance that allows us to soften our voices when we see each other.”
some photos i took from emerson college’s encampment for palestine. most of these were taken only a few hours before the boston PD attacked hundreds of protestors and brutally arrested 108 students, most of whom were poc, jewish, and/or queer.
anyone who spent any amount of time in the encampment will tell you just how much it brought us all together—there was always food, music, arts and crafts, and hundreds of messages of support written in chalk.
after the BPD was done brutalising us for peacefully protesting, they power washed down the walls of the encampment—all of these messages are gone. theyre trying to erase what happened, but they’ll never truly be able to. everyone saw, and everyone will remember.
from 1969 by alex dimitrov, published in love and other poems
[Text ID: And whatever language is good for, a sign, a message left up there that reads: “Here men from planet Earth first set foot upon the moon, July 1969 A.D.
We came in peace for all mankind.” Then returned to continue the war. /End ID]
From the photographer: My Teta, the mother of apricots, always holds my hand as she tours me around her land allowing me to harvest eight decades of indigenous knowledge. I visited a few weeks ago, before being two checkpoints away meant total closure.
My Teta doesn't waste anything, you see. Months earlier, she had used the skin and seeds of a previous watermelon as compost for her lemongrass and sage. This watermelon is special. She saw the seed germinate and continued to nurture it as if it were one of her children.
For decades, the watermelon has stood as a symbol of Palestinian resistance. When the Israeli regime occupied the West Bank and Gaza, my Teta's land, they banned public display of the Palestinian flag. In response to facism, Palestinians used fruit. Carrying sliced watermelons during demonstrations as an expression of our liberation movement. The fruit's flesh and seeds mirror those of our flag, mirror those of our land.
Watermelon season passed months ago. However, my Teta doesn't waste anything, you see. It is dying and soon will become dehydrated from winter's siege. Its seeds will rest between pockets of red soil, but next harvest it will grow.
And it will grow.
And it will grow.
And it will grow.
Until our flag is raised on the sniper towers surrounding our towns, and this watermelon can return to become just simply, a fruit.