1.1 / AZZA FI HAWAK

                *All pieces where created in 2020 Mixed media work on cotton paper size A5   ________ Dar Al Naim’s work demonstrates an impulsive desire to create. In her practice, culture, tradition, spiritual/natural awareness and an obsession with scale plays an immense role in the producing of artwork.

In December 2018 in Khartoum, the people were taking to the streets in the revolution that eventually ended the almost-30-year power reign of Omar al-Bashir. It was an emotionally intense time for those of us at home and in the diaspora, cycling through conflicting feelings of fear and hope, despair and optimism.

  Excerpt from Ya Waldah Ya Maryam by Mahjoub Shareef   Maryam, daughter of the country, mother of men held hostage—and sometimes crucified. She did not arrive as a song but as a poem. Born in Kober prison, born in 1973, born to Mahjoub Shareef, Maryam was a plea for waiting out the darkness.

                            ________ AYA ADIL ELBAZ  is a 22 year old writer, and a freelancer  at Al Jazeera Media Network. She was born in Sudan into a family of authors, journalists and filmmakers.

We find a perfect piece of shade underneath the warm sun, and Azza pours the tea before she speaks Azza never looks the same.

                                                                        ________ DALIA ELHASSAN is a Sudanese-American poet and writer living in NYC.

Braid my cheese and slaughter a goat for my graduation, Overstay your welcome, Unspool prayer into cupped palms & spread it over our gleaming faces, feeding us sweets at funerals and 3aseer laymoon in sickness, Burn down all hotels & industrialised hospitality, Cry every bayt is baytak, every home is home   did you want

after Myles Cameron we arrive in a dream dressed up in yellow, the smell of frying samosas swimming through our warm skin. the first time i saw my parents kiss over sizzling oil— a memory i muddied the color of the sun.

we arrived impossible and unbelieving you unready for ruins, and me with a secret in my lap, and a prayer may it float on blood (as it does water) i tuck the risk behind my cheek i begged for this chance to kiss the earth above haboba’s feet to trace the walls you wouldn’t keep

The little-used narrow staircase in the back of the campus center Shabat shabat shabat of some other student’s sandals Qul huwa allahu ahad all over again Holy words breathed against dusty floor, the motes fly up to pray with me A thousand fitting rooms with a thousand dresses I never intended to try on hanging

Haboba’s hair smells like back home Frankincense & myrrh   sandalwood & ambergris Scents twirling & traveling through the history of each strand From up close, I can see the Nile running through it The sand at its base Tangerine-stained hair to match the tint of her fingertips like the Nubian sun is glossing it Every night

Azza exchanges the robes of freedom for the silky toabs of comfort, swears gossip travels farther than hadeeth ever could. no matter how many times they burn down cities to ashes to fuel islamophobia, the bond does not break. no matter how many times we offer our children to the fire, the flames remain insatiable.

Part One: The Presence of Absence   Candle flickers out. Khartoum 2018 The boy is sleeping on a plush handmade cotton mattress at the foot of the American box spring bed in that blue room.

The men left and we had no choice but to follow 1930: a tiny version of Jiddo walks down Soug Berber with his Haboba follows the sound of young chanting asks in the curious voice of childhood if he can join His Haboba pulling him back to Alsirat Almustageem The next day, ready to escape,

do you do that often, think about death? he couldn’t hold me in one piece i always came undone so he left     my brother did that once that wasn’t the question we only know how to come back     never how to stay how does that make you feel? once when i was three he threw

on fridays, I mourn every eid, I mourn the trips never made to 7ai Baris or Omdurman the tea trays never served the cousin sleepovers no longer planned the kaak lasting weeks the bebsi going flat & still no ring on the bell mama digs out makanat albaskweet more daughters more hands greased & battered

again my fatherunclecousins begin; at first, it was chaos and flight then, dull ache:             smallness     in wait lastly, life: precariously stitching threads of was             into becoming.

My body is at rest, eyes open wide. Mama’s hand drifts over my lids.

my husband works his fingers into the knot muscled against my spine      & my dead stay dead          my hair a knotted cursive language my ligature      my grief barely literate      my amulets knotted around my neck & wrists       my language my language       cursive & silent       glottal & knotted & scarring the cheeks of my dead      adorning