Tag Archives: Beirut

Part of the job of being a writer is promoting one’s books, and while I love to praise and promote the work of my friends and mentees, I generally feel uncomfortable trumpeting my own. The current political climate creates an added emotional dissonance—in the face of increasing daily violence and moral shocks, how to hustle to sell a book?

These are scary times. Again, in any direction you look people, their rights, and their well-being are under attack. We are reading about the roundup and imprisonment of dissident foreign graduate students, and witnessing the crushing of our institutions (including a front row seat for the capitulation at Columbia). Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha canceled a 16-event national tour because he is subject to a doxxing and smear campaign by far-right organization Betar USA, that has been handing over lists of people it wants deported. The situation in Gaza is truly heinous, with food aid rotting at the border while hunger is rampant and bombings continuous. The announced “voluntary migration plan” for the ethnic cleansing of Gaza is truly sickening.

But we somehow need to keep going, to live our lives, to do our work, take care of our families, and gather with organizations and groups that are fighting the worst of these harms. Palestinian poet and writer Mohammed El Kurd posted some words on Twitter that resonated strongly for me:

the basics: fascism thrives on fear. they want you to be silent, to self-censor, to do less. you will not recover whatever ground you concede. the moment calls for caution, not hysteria. courage, not cowardice. if the objective is fear, be unafraid. dissent.

My writing is also a form of dissidence. As I say in a recently published essay about the making of The Burning Heart of the World in the Armenian Weekly:

April 2025 is the 50th anniversary of the start of the Lebanese Civil War and the 110th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide. My novel reverberates with both of these cataclysms, and it appears at a time when Lebanon and Armenia have just experienced more paroxysms of violence, suffering under existential threats to their sovereignty and territorial integrity. My novel is a journey through these histories and into this burning heart of the world. The title evokes both illumination and conflagration. The world is on fire, and while there is much darkness in the book, there is also humor, empathy and a commitment to amplifying that which is humane in the human. This last is central to my literary project.

The official publication date of my novel is April 1, and I am in Los Angeles for its launch. I have four evening events this week—in conversation at Diesel Books with Talar Chahinian on Monday, a panel discussion with my friends Joanne Nucho, Mashinka Hakopian, and Ara Oshagan on Tuesday at OxyArts, in conversation on Wednesday at the Glendale Central Library with my friend Shahe Mankerian, and a Thursday literary salon featuring poets Lory Bedikian, Arthur Kayzakian, and me hosted by Red Hen Press in Pasadena. The following week in New York, I will be in conversation with Marianne Hirsch at Knox Hall in Morningside Heights on April 7th, and with Raffi Khatchadourian at Greenlight Bookstore in Brooklyn on April 9. On April 15^th I will be in conversation with Nanore Barsoumian at NAASR in Belmont, MA, and on April 17^th with Lisa Gulesserian at Porter Square Books in Cambridge. For people who are not in these localities, the April 15^th event at NAASR will be hybrid with viewing options via Zoom and YouTube. More events are being scheduled for May and June.

May we find the courage to keep speaking out. May we find the strength to protect each other.

Yours in struggle,

Nancy K

RECOMMENDED READING

Variety: Mark Ruffalo, Penélope Cruz and 500 Oscar Voters Sign Hamdan Ballal Letter

Israeli historian Ilan Pappe on the end of Zionism.

My friend Patty Kaishian curated this show at the New York State Museum about the life and work of mycologist Mary Banning.

James Schamus on Andrew Ahn’s updated Wedding Banquet.

Last week’s excitement was the arrival of the advanced reading copies of my novel THE BURNING HEART OF THE WORLD from Red Hen Press. (You may preorder the novel from Bookshop by using this link that supports the International Armenian Literary Alliance.) I am in the process of correcting the page proofs, and I have been working with the publicist to set up book events for the spring. The full details are not yet available but below is an overview of the current lineup.

March 26-29 AWP Conference in Los Angeles, events at the Red Hen Press booth

Monday, March 31 at Diesel Books in Brentwood, in conversation with Talar Chahinian

Tuesday, April 1 panel at OxyArts with Mashinka Firunts Hakopian, Joanne Nucho, Ara Oshagan

Wednesday, April 2 at the Glendale Public Library in conversation with Shahe Mankerian

Thursday, April 3 at Red Hen Press in Pasadena with poets Lory Bedikian and Arthur Kayzakian

Monday, April 7 at Columbia University in conversation with Marianne Hirsch

Wednesday, April 9 at Greenlight Bookstore in Brooklyn in conversation with Raffi Khatchadourian

Tuesday, April 15 at NAASR in Belmont in conversation with Nanore Barsoumian

Thursday, April 17 at Porter Square Books in Cambridge in conversation with Lisa Gulesserian

Sunday, April 27 in the Detroit area for the local Armenian community

It’s December now and we have a winter to get through, but April and the book launch are on the horizon.

When I was growing up, each year in December, our small Armenian Evangelical Church would put on a Christmas pageant featuring a manger scene, complete with the requisite holy family, three kings, some shepherds, and an array of angels. We sang carols from a small white booklet with red-cheeked choir boys on the cover, and among my favorites were “We Three Kings of Orient Are,” probably because of the dirgeful key, and “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Just now when I was thinking of the chorus of that second song, I misremembered it as “tidings of comfort and light,” when it is actually “comfort and joy.”

Joy seems a bit too ambitious for this holiday season as the horsemen of the apocalypse, many more than four of them, are galloping towards us. I’ve lately stopped asking people, “How are you?” which is too fraught a question in these troubled times, and instead have been saying, “It’s so good to see you.” And there is nothing better right now than gathering in the real world with friends, family, and comrades. We need each other now more than ever.

Wishing you comfort and light,

Nancy K

THIS MONTH’S RECOMMENDATIONS

READ

The latest issue of Wasafiri Magazine, entitled Armenia(n)s—Elevation is now available for purchase. My essay “His Driving Life,” about my late father and his relationship to motor vehicles, is available for free download to the first 50 readers. If you miss the chance for the free version, let me know and I will send you the PDF.

A powerful essay about life in Shujaiya in Northern Gaza entitled The Mirror by Nadera Mushtha, one of my We Are Not Numbers mentees. (Nadera’s GoFundMe is here.)

“The Bullet,” a poem by Sahar Rabah, translated from the Arabic by Ammiel Alcalay. Sahar was accepted into the MFA Program in Creative Writing at Rutgers/Newark, but she has had to defer her admission because she is unable to leave Gaza. The crossings are closed to all but a handful of severely injured people who have been allowed to evacuate for medical care abroad.

LISTEN

For the London Review of Books podcast, Adam Shatz interviewed Dr. Ghassan Abu Sittah, a pediatric plastic and reconstructive surgeon, and journalist Muhammad Shehada about Gaza’s past, present, and future.

The Intercept’s Briefing “Syria: What Comes Next?” is an excellent and informative interview with Syrian journalist Rami Jarrah.

WATCH

Indiewire’s 17 Best First Films of 2024 includes our progeny Noah’s Summer Solstice, which is described as a “sun-dappled and warmly directed buddy comedy.” If you haven’t yet seen it, the film is currently streaming on several platforms.

Nancy Kricorian

As a child I went to a Pioneer Girls Christian camp starting in the summer after fifth grade through the summer after my senior year in high school. The now defunct New England Camp Cherith was on Lake Bunganut in Alfred, Maine. It was on the camp’s 130 wooded acres that I had my first experiences with hiking and camping and was taught how to build a campfire and to cook a tin foil dinner. When I was a counselor in training, we were required to learn the names of five trees, five wildflowers, five birds, five rocks, and five constellations. In the Nature Cabin, I pored over field guides, and at night the other C.I.T.s and I would lie on our backs on the mown hill staring up at the stars. I had always loved our large yard and garden in Watertown, turning up the marble steppingstones to look at the insects underneath or resting my cheek on the soft moss between the peach tree and the hedge of lilacs. Now I came to love the broader canvas of the camp’s forest, lakeshore, and rolling hills.

When I was a student in Columbia’s Graduate Writing Division in the 1980’s, Arizona poet Richard Shelton, who passed at the end of last year, came to deliver a Master Class. He had a warm and relaxed charm, and he read us a few of his poems that were full of details about the Sonoran Desert. He told us, “If you don’t know the name of a thing, you can’t fully see it.” He described the way that people unfamiliar with the desert would experience it as an empty space, but if you studied it the way he had, learning the names of the plants, the animals, the insects, and even the stones, you would understand its fullness. These words have reverberated in my head for decades now, and when I walk through the forest behind our Columbia County house, I recite the names of what I recognize—the wildflowers, the trees, the birds, and mushrooms. But I feel overwhelmed wondering about the names I don’t yet know for the ferns, the mosses, lichens, and grasses on the forest floor. As the poet Maxine Kumin put it, “Our ground time here will be brief,” and I wish I had begun this concerted study much earlier.

For the conclusion of my Beirut novel (no news yet—I promise as soon as there is anything to tell, I’ll send out a flare), I wrote a folk tale called “The Girl Who Talked with Birds.” I started birdwatching ten years ago as part of the research for this novel, which has avian imagery woven throughout the narrative, but also as an extension of my engagement with the natural world. The protagonist of the folk tale, a girl named Sosi, thinks to herself:

Sosi understood that each living thing had a name, and she wanted to learn what to call each flower, grass, and insect. Her mother knew many of the names, and her grandmother knew even more, but neither of them knew them all. In response to Sosi’s incessant questions, her grandmother said, ‘The Creator made them, and only the Creator knows the name of each and every one.’

Writing a novel is a way of creating a world, and, because of my interest in history and need for historical accuracy, of recreating a world, filling it with people, places, events, sounds, textures, and smells that are at once invented and rooted in lived reality. I want the reader to open the book and to be transported into the world that the characters inhabit. And the more I know about this beautiful, resilient, and fragile planet on which we live and the people and other creatures who roam its precincts, the truer this fictional world can be.

P.S. Our adult child Noah Schamus has a film premiering at the Provincetown Film Festival this weekend. Watch the trailer here. This nuanced, funny, and moving film is mom approved (I’m the mom, of course, but I’m relatively objective, having told Noah in elementary school that they gave the second-best performance in the school production of Romeo and Juliet). I’ll send out news about where you can see Summer Solstice when it’s made more widely available.

Nancy Kricorian