The Compost Manifesto

        by Dot Armstrong


Compost is Cyclical

        A mouse wriggles in from a hole in the bin’s outside. Burrowing up, sideways, and through, little paws disrupt compacted layers. Above, the fresher stuff. Weeds, straw, leaf detritus. Yesterday’s breakfast, still recognizable: coffee grounds, newspapers, eggshells, grapefruit rinds, pineapple crowns. Below, soil in the making. In the middle, scrabbling for purchase in the ripe darkness, the mouse digs a cave. She can’t see where she is but she feels a pulse. The pile seethes with rot. Though the top freezes, it heats from the inside, making a cozy spot for a rodent to spend a long winter. Microbes eat and fart, performing alchemical spells through their miniscule digestive tracts while the mouse sleeps. Snow comes, covering the bin and heavying its contents. The mouse and microbes sleep and eat, oblivious. The seasons shift: freeze and thaw and freeze and thaw and thaw again until the smell of last December’s grapefruits hits the air. The mouse stirs among the stems and seeds and the human grabs the pitchfork. It’s time to flip the compost.


Compost is Personal

        I left Brooklyn in March last year. I stayed at my parents’ house in Minnesota for what I thought would be a brief exodus from the virus. April came; I got restless. Birds darted through the warming air and tulip shoots poked through the leaf detritus on the lawn. As a kid, one of my chores was emptying the silver compost bucket onto the pile in the back garden. This task once belonged to my dad, but he usually forgot about it. So: as the prodigal child and out-of-place city kid, I returned to an ancient responsibility. I even declared that I’d turn the compost—proposing a complete takeover of the whole disposal-and-aeration affair. After a few fragrant experiments over the years, we learned it’s crucial to aerate the compost. Think of the pile like a parfait: if all the vegetable matter squishes together in compact layers, the microbes can’t digest it. Digging through the pile shuffles the layers around, giving every scrap a chance at decomposition.

        A simple acolyte to the compost’s eternal flame, I had my quest. The tools were simple, elegant: a pitchfork with sloping tines and three black barrels containing the compost. I tied my hair up and threw an extra bandanna around my neck. I planted my feet athwart the middle barrel, plunged the fork into the pile with a thud and heaved free a half-frozen chunk. Holding the weight of half-asleep microbes, I thought about New York. Like the compost, the city fosters a complex togetherness. Disparate entities, all packed together—dense and intertwined as layers of squash skins and banana peels. These networks, the connections we can’t bury, either help us or haunt us.


Compost is Communal

        As long as humans have eaten, they have composted. An ancient practice, old as decomposition itself. And composition: during Sargon’s reign in 2300 BC, Akkadian farmers wrote fertilizer reports in cuneiform. Scots and Britons, Italians, Greeks, and Spaniards, Chinese and African farmers all created systems for turning shit into gold. Here in the States, indigenous folks perfected techniques to enrich the soil with nitrogen using fish, dung, and food scraps. Techniques abound, but one truth remains: when you’re composting, you’re never alone. In New York, you’re also never alone. Composting should be a cinch.  But city-wide compost collection stopped altogether in spring 2020 and hasn’t yet resumed. I wasn’t there at the outset, but I want to know what happened.

        Where was I in the interim? Adjusting my bandanna over a barrel of microbes, reveling in the rank, funky scents rising to my nose. I stabbed at the gnarly tangle, glimpsing buried textures thawing in the sun. Unfrosted whorls, a winter’s worth of organic Gordian knots: skins, pits, pith, and rinds; seeds and leaves, mats of grass, severed roots, peelings—a living archive of decay, animated library of discarded materials barely resembling their former shapes. What looked like waste was fecundity coming out of hibernation. Just as vital as the tulips. A chaotic snarl of abundance. Life, smelling like death. As I thrust my tines in again and forked over more of the frosty top layer, a ripe warmth swelled up.
The compost had its own temperature. And I sweated my own smell over the mix.
I stink the body electric, I hummed, flexing my muscles.

        Whitman’s dream, echoes of Marx. Compost is an effort for the greater good, an earthy project of redemption and resistance. An ecstatic dissolution of individual parts into something richer. Cedar waxwings sang and shat in the trees as I fed the seething mass of microbes their breakfast. Making space; giving life. Over and over. Simple motion. But who turns the piles in Brooklyn? Who turns the city to face the turning seasons, the opening world? What values do we find, distilled like soil at the bottom of this year and the next?  I came back in September 2020. Theaters were closed; restaurants and bars were serving bold customers. Schools struggled to keep up with curriculum. Compost, once a component of lofty climate goals and a source for green jobs, was last
on everyone’s list.


Compost is Messy

        New York produces 14 million tons of waste per year. Bags on the corner for trash day, sagging with carrot peelings from the banh mi place, moldy cronuts from the bakery, pizza crusts. Lemon slices and soggy fries from the dive bar next door scattered across the sidewalk. So: where do we put food scraps to avoid this unidirectional horror? Pre-pandemic, the New York City Department of Sanitation managed compost in two ways: through residential collection and independent drop-off sites. To receive residential collection service, you needed a “food scraps and yard waste” bin to put beside your
trash and recycling bins—city employees did the rest, collecting an estimated 50,000 tons of compost in 2019. 50,000 tons of cilantro stems, wilted lettuce, onion skins, eggshells, mango peels. The New York City Compost Project, founded in 1993, once partnered with seven locations across the five boroughs to facilitate food scrap drop-
off and compost education. GROW NYC arrived in 2011 to close the loop between locally-sourced food and locally-sourced food waste at its Greenmarkets and gardens. And let
it be known: New York’s community gardens are magical little spots, minor shrines to the deities of rot and reuse, decked out with flags and signs and furnishings reminiscent of the ‘hood they’re from. Odds are, there’s one right around the corner. From the Lower East Side to Ridgewood, gardens flourish with tenacity in unbelievably small spaces. Composting is a typical exception to strict members-only rules at the gardens. There’s
a tacit understanding. We’ve all got food scraps; we need to put them somewhere. And we’d be tripping if we erased that reality by dumping our carrot tops and apple cores in the trash. Compost: the great equalizer.

        As the pandemic spread and I high-tailed it for the Midwest, composting sites across the five boroughs shut down. Deeming collection unsafe, the city cut funding for the Department of Sanitation’s program on May 4, 2020. The cycle stopped altogether. And New Yorkers did what New Yorkers do: they took matters into their own hands. Spring arrived. Magnolias bloomed in the botanical gardens. A friend of a friend started collecting compost for his neighbors after the NYC Compost Project laid him off. Shocked by the lack of support from the city, he outfitted his bike with a capacious trailer and pedaled through the boroughs. Another friend made a weekly pilgrimage of her own. She biked from 148th Street in Harlem to Dean Street in Brooklyn, taking the Waterfront Greenway bike path down the west side of the island and crossing the Manhattan Bridge, carrying food scraps in her backpack.

        Meanwhile, outside the city and far away from convoluted urban infrastructure, I stepped into my parents’ backyard and lifted the lid on the barrels. Considered the many peregrinations, the cycles of arrive and return, arrive and return. I considered the miles I’d have
to travel to get back to my apartment, the distance between what I knew of the city pre-pandemic and what the city might become upon my return. Not an afterlife, exactly, but a revitalization. Second coming. The new metropolis, bustling and stirring with civic activity. Rot to soil; isolation to communion. Resurrection.


Compost is Ritual

        Five minutes by foot, two minutes by bike. There’s a line. There’s always a line, here in the city- Brooklyn on a Sunday is no exception. We wait, solicitous and patient as parishioners waiting for communion or parents waiting for school dismissal, clutching our bags and pails and buckets. Afternoon means queue, means showing up. A duty we took on; a project we are still responsible for. Two steel buckets on the sidewalk brimming with scraps half-frozen and multicolored in the bright January air. I clutch my own bag of peelings, rinds, and seeds, feeling the weight of the week’s refuse. A volunteer stabs one bucket with a shovel, making room for my offering. I’ve walked past the Prospect Heights Community Farm so many times, it took consulting Google Maps to find its exact location: cradled between two brick apartment buildings, across the street from PS. 9. Here I am, and here it is: square, deep, and withered to match the season. Though the black iron gate is locked, I imagine strolling forever into the tangled mass between the buildings. Trees branch and bend; raised beds, stalks, stems, seedheads, rocks, paths, benches. There’s a lot I can’t see. From where I’m standing, the back of the garden doesn’t exist. Does it end? Climbing vines caress a 5th-floor windowsill.

        More things I can’t see: legislation, boundaries, agendas. When the city quit collecting, the Farm welcomed anyone with a bag of roughage. But I know there’s not enough space here to process all the organic material from my neighbors’ endless pandemic kitchen experiments. On the gate, hand-lettered posters reading “OPEN HOURS” sag against fiberglass placards from the city council. Best Green Space 2017. Best Neighborhood Garden 2018. City gardens are as much made of words as they are of seeds and soil.
And what of the name? Utopian forecasting: call it a farm and the meager plot will stretch, exceeding its confines and urban situation, brimming with space and possibilities. Not exactly the shit-polishing of the delis and markets—every block in Brooklyn has its own “World’s Best Cup of Coffee”—but an agricultural variant. Call it what you want it to be.


Compost is Revolutionary

        The term compost derives from Old French, then Latin. One etymological direction produces compote, stewed fruits to drizzle over ice cream; another makes soil. Compost is a mixture, a putting-together, a combination bigger than the sum of its parts. Compost is a party, an improvisation: it’s a jam session roiling with unpredictable harmonies. Compost is beyond ripe. It’s frightening, anarchic. No wonder it scares us a little. Food scraps decay at rates slower or quicker than human expectation and take on new forms foreign to our senses. Fragments of recognizable produce—celery leaves, squash skins, apple cores—get weird in the pile’s deep heat.

        And here’s the weirdest part: there’s a hierarchy of waste. Trash bag mountains line the sidewalk on my route to Prospect Heights Community Farm. Blue and black, grey
and white, slouching empty or stuffed with bizarre angles. Towering heaps spilling down the curb and into the street. So what, we say, the trucks will take them somewhere else. Keep walking. Trash is ubiquitous in the city. The Big Apple’s real rotting core. And where does it go? Consider: New York sends its trash as far away as the Carolinas for processing. What would the city look like if the wine bottles and takeout containers and aluminum foil burger wrappers and single-serving froyo cups stuck around? We’d have to build our luxury condos in the black bag mountains. Compost is gnarly, yes, but in the way Brooklyn hipsters are gnarly: gross, sure, but beguiling and sexy. A hot mess. Trash,
on the other hand, warrants no shot at redemption. Compost is reincarnation, hippie garden magic; trash is Capitalist waste. Real waste. Real death.

        NYC promised to send zero waste to regional landfills by 2030. The crisis, as always, is spatial. Expanding alternative systems for waste management means rethinking where and how we live. The answers rely neither on community gardens nor city collection alone. We need composite solutions: many locations, many hands. The reality is not seamless, but tangible, proximal. Two spaces in particular offer visions for New York’s food waste future—but they’re in trouble. The Lower East Side Ecology Center, a satellite of the NYC Compost Project, continues to accept and process food scraps as it has since 1987. This location, along with the Big Reuse in Queens, faces removal due to misguided city planning. Eviction threatens humans and their microbial companions alike. Consider: would you rather live next to a garden fragrant with new soil, or a dump?

        Big Reuse processes GROW NYC’s compost. LESEC, in addition to processing, offers educational programming and equipment distribution. When these spaces—and the humans with pitchforks who tend them and render them operational—are forced out, the city has no recourse but to keep throwing things away. Compost, residing down the block like an eccentric neighbor, gives the lie to this illusion: there is no away.


Compost is the Future

        I am explaining Easter to the kid I babysit. She’s eating pineapple chunks out of
a plastic container and I am standing beside the sink, chopping garlic for a stir fry.
The discussion began when she offered her definition of Jesus: he’s the Messiah,
and the Romans had him crucified- which means they nailed him to a cross! Ok, tell me about what happened after he died, I prompt, raising my eyebrows. She blinks. I chuckle, crossing my eyes and sticking my tongue out. Braaaaains! I groan. Her fork thuds to the table in a spray of yellow juice. Zombie Jesus?! Oh, right! He was dead, and then he wasn’t! she exclaims. I shake the papery garlic skins into the compost bag, along with the vegetables’ earthly remains: carrot tops, broccoli peels, radish tails, furled layers from decapitated onions. This Sunday, I’ll tote my bag to the community garden and start
the cycle anew. Rot to soil. Scent of citrus rinds, overripe pineapple, moldy leaf matter. Birds chirping; mouse nibbling; humans in the garden, grunting and huffing. Turn, turn, turn.

        A city without compost is an impossible utopia. A family without arguments, a theater premiere with no line, a deli without bagels. To meet the next phase of New York’s awakening, we must concede to live amid the waste we create. It is our quest. Take up your pitchforks and buckets, people. Locate your nearest community garden; petition your leaders to value compost collection as an essential service. Look at the leavings from the breakfast you just made. See beauty in entropy, loveliness in dry grapefruit
skins and discarded coffee grounds.  Renew your faith in decay.


Dot Armstrong is a is a queer, nonbinary freelance writer and movement artist based in Brooklyn. They received a BA in English Literature and a BFA in Dance Performance from the University of Iowa. Their work has appeared in Isele Magazine, Tiny Seed, and Culturebot. This spring, they started taking pictures of their compost.

The Field

by Esther Vincent Xueming

I find myself standing again at the edge of the road, although now, there is something different, I can’t quite pinpoint what, about this road from the road I remember. In search of the field of my childhood, I cross. In this dream, the place I grew up in is familiar yet strange, and instead of a small patch of grass that used to mark the boundary between this estate and the next, there is now a manicured lawn with various kinds of weird and wonderful animals perambulating.

But this is not the field of my childhood—where as a child of nine or ten, I used to ramble for hours on my own while my mother did her chores in our apartment on the third floor, leaving me to return with bunches of wildflowers and rapt stories of tiger moths—so I continue walking down the road, on the red road tiles shaped like arrows pointing me home, through the void decks of the housing estate, under sheltered walkways connecting block to carpark, past the empty playing court where you could string a net or ride around in circles on your bike, towards the lift lobby, normally flooded with natural light, now morphed into a dark corridor. But I walk further still, towards the phone booth near the letter boxes on the ground floor, because my memory tells me that beyond the labyrinth of pillars, the grey of concrete will give way to a field of green.




Mary Oliver writes in Upstream that a writer’s subject may just as well be what she “longs for and dreams about, in an unquenchable dream, in lush detail and harsh honesty”. And yet, to long for the subject of this essay, the field of my childhood, is to long for a broken and irretrievable past. A place or habitation I can no longer enter in the physical sense though I keep returning to it in my dreams, in various iterations and permutations, the field changing each time, but still the same.

The field of my dreams was once a field of green, inhabited by wildflowers I would only later learn the names of. One day, upon visiting my mother, she hands me two books I used to own as a child: A Guide to the Wildflowers of Singapore and A Guide to Medicinal Plants, scientific handbooks published by the Singapore Science Centre. I flip the cover and on the reverse side, my mother’s name “Mrs. Vincent Elaine” is written in blue ink, dated “10/3/99”, against paper ringed with the sepia of mould. These would be the same two handbooks I would consult twenty one years later as I revise a poem for a Creative Writing Graduate course about childhood, memory and change.

But what of the field, you ask?

To paint a landscape from memory, one has to take certain liberties. But let me endeavour to recreate the scene as accurately as I can remember. As accurately as it is deserving of memory. To a child, the field was an immeasurable expanse of grassland, a gentle slope leading up to a plateau where all around, an ocean of green. Of course there were already high-rise blocks bordering the edges of the field, but a child’s mind is immune to limits and boundaries, and so I invented stories and places, telling myself that to my north was a strange and forbidden land (in reality, my mother had disallowed me from venturing too far, the field containing my adventures and exploits), to my east, the road of daily traffic, to my south, my castle, my home, and to my west, nothing of real consequence.

The adventure begins with waving goodbye to my mother, walking out the house gates in slippers, my fingers trailing the white walls of the corridor, fingering the peeled beige paint of the metal staircase. Sometimes, if I was lucky, I would be greeted by a tiger moth resting on the wall, but if not, I would skip down the three floors of stairs, walk past the lift landing on the ground floor, towards the pillars at the void deck, phone booth to the left, letter boxes somewhere nearby. Past all that, the block would end with a narrow strip of metal drains, and all I had to do was take a breath and cross over, and I would enter another world.

The field was always there for me, waiting. And I was always eager to be alone in her company. I remember climbing up the little slope with great effort, imagining it was a steep incline, and then running across the wide expanse, lungs bursting like the white tufts of the common vernonia fruits when they explode from the tight cups of their flowering, or blowing bubbles into the air when I brought along with me a small bottle of cheap soap. I remember touching and sniffing the wildflowers, knowing they were common weeds but loving them all the same. How I would look for grass blues, little silver-blue butterflies that were ever in abundance, flitting from wildflower to wildflower, doing their work diligently, interrupted only by my thumb and forefinger when I picked them up in wonder, before setting them free on their powdery voyage.

The grass was green and the field of my childhood was open to me, like a mother whose heart would daily welcome the daughter who stood at the door, asking to return home.




We are told a story of scarcity and economy, one whereby our government’s land use policy is predicated upon the need to “optimise limited land” to meet the demands of the people. As a small nation-state with supposedly little natural resources, we believe that people are our key resource, and that our land should be subject to stringent planning for the continual growth and development of the nation. Redevelopment, the word is sandy in my mouth, and so I gather it into a ball and spit each grain out.

Here, it is common for the average citizen to view land as a scarce commodity, a piece of real estate that appreciates or depreciates in economic value, a thing to buy, sell, rent, cordon off, tear down, build over. Rationalised in pragmatics terms, land is partitioned into parcels and plots, put up for the wealthy to acquire and commercialise. A house serves its purpose well in so far as it facilitates day-to-day living, and most of the time, when housing decisions are made, factors like proximity, accessibility and convenience rank at the top of a homebuyer’s list. Home owners buy and sell their houses when the property market works in their favour, buying when low and selling when high, and so we trade our homes for houses of brick and stone in the housing marketplace.

Marshall Sahlins, cultural anthropologist, writes that “modern capitalist societies, however richly endowed, dedicate themselves to the proposition of scarcity. Inadequacy of economic means is the first principle of the world’s wealthiest peoples”.

As a child growing up, I had little notion of this at the beginning. My childhood before the age of six was a hazy blur, and much of what I recall about home was aided by old photographs, which conjured long forgotten memories of sand-filled playgrounds, a bulky, red, wired telephone, a tricycle in the living room, dark sliding doors in the bedroom, my father carrying me in his arms, smiling by the main door gate. We had lived in two different parts of Singapore by then, Yishun which was in the north, and then Serangoon North, which was the northeast. Much of that I have forgotten.

The home of my remembered childhood, the one that appears to me time and again in my dreams, is the place of my primary school years, of taking the school bus, then the public bus to our school at the other side of Tampines, of crossing the road, past the small patch of green, and plucking a handful of Cupid’s Shaving Brush to secretly feed the neighbour’s rabbits before heading home. Going over to the Thai home-based hair salon for a cheap haircut, then walking past the basketball court quickly to avoid getting hit by the ball. Spending hot afternoons after school watching Speedy Gonzales on the television, and then racing for joy downstairs to the void deck with my father, back from work in the evenings, to rollerblade from pillar to pillar, pillar to his arms.

Cycling in dizzying circles in my living room, holding large birthday parties, and once, hearing the sounds of an Indian wedding from down below, I ran to the kitchen window and caught a glimpse of the procession. Bride and groom smiling, flowers strewn on the red road tiles, the scent of jasmine and the drumming of the tabla lingering in my awestruck mind long after another season of monsoon rains washed over the city.

Before I turned thirteen, we would sell this house, and move even closer to my secondary school, affiliated to my primary school and located at the same site. Here, high-rise blocks lined both sides of the small road. We would only be a five-minute walk away from school, where before, we had to take a thirty-minute bus ride with our ponderous school bags. There was a coffeeshop and some amenities on the ground floor, which made it convenient. While this new place was much smaller, there was built-in air-conditioning, as well as cabinets in both bedrooms, so we could readily move in with little renovations.

True, there would be no more large birthday parties, no slipping next door to our Malay neighbours’ place for cookies and cake. I would no longer be able to meet my cousins who lived a few blocks away to rollerblade, cycle, or play. There were no sand-filled playgrounds with the smell of rank piss, but by this time, I had outgrown playgrounds, and moved on to crushes instead. While downsizing from a spacious four-roomed to a three-roomed apartment financed our first family trip down south to Sydney and Melbourne, in hindsight, I now regret the price we paid just to afford ten days of leisure.

I remember our last weeks in my childhood home. Our bedroom was locked, and now filled with the belongings of the new homeowners. The house no longer smelt of the five of us, but of an inevitable past and a beckoning future, housed into one living, breathing space. We would leave behind wall posters and charts of fruits, vegetables and Chinese characters, for the new homeowners to do with them as they pleased. Perhaps I visited the field everyday, perhaps I willed myself to forget, perhaps I truly forgot about it in my delirium to grow up and move away.

Or perhaps I shut the door to the memory of my field because the pain of separation was too much for a child of twelve to bear.




A girl observes from a distance an indiscernible shape on a hill, which unfolds into a red fox. The fox unfurls, bows and stretches its body, unaware of the girl. It takes its time, licking its front paws, looks around and eventually ambles away. The girl comes to a profound realisation—that life goes on in spite of her. The red fox and the girl, both alive, both sharing the same space for a moment in time, the girl regarding the fox, the fox disregarding the girl.

This is what I reimagine of a poem by Mary Oliver, although I have taken the liberty to dream that the girl stands in a field at the foot of the hill, wishing she could peel off her skin, shake loose her luscious, red fur, and bound off to join the others in the woods just beyond the hill.




Secondary school would pass with little nostalgia for my childhood home. I entered polytechnic, I graduated, I worked for over a year in a small marketing firm. I received a teaching bond and travelled across the island for four years to complete my education degree, and returned to my secondary school, this time as a teacher.

The field did not come to me in my dreams, and I was now a young woman of twenty-seven. Jo Gill writes in her chapter “Poetry and Place” that a “return to the country is also a return to the self”. In this case, the field was my country, the country was my childhood, my childhood was the part of my self I had barred shut behind a door in order to survive.

Perhaps it is Eavan Boland, who in “The Woman, the Place, the Poet”, says it most poignantly, that “there is the place that happened and the place that happens to you”.

The field of my childhood happened to me, and when a tiger moth landed on my kitchen windowpane one evening as I was doing the dishes, it was as though the waters in the well of my memory, the silence and loss buried within my subconscious, began brimming and running over, flooding the shores of my conscious waking self. The tiger moth as spirit guide, as patient teacher, as intuitive dreamer, leading me by my fingertips on a bittersweet journey of returning.




Let me tell you the Iroqouis creation myth of Skywoman.

Skywoman fell from Skyworld down into the water below, and was greeted and cared for by all the animals there. Turtle carried her on his back, and after many gave up their lives trying to get her mud from the bottom of the lake, little muskrat succeeded before he too breathed his last. Skywoman was grateful to the animal beings for their sacrifice, and she created land with that mud, blessing the earth with all manner of seeds, plants and trees, her hair, wiingaashk, or sweetgrass, reminding us of Skywoman and bringing to mind forgotten stories that tell of our indigenous and reciprocal bonds to the land.

I read this moving creation story from the first chapter of Braiding Sweetgrass, written by Robin Wall Kimmerer, a mother, scientist and Potawatomi nation citizen, and I think of how, like Skywoman, my ancestors too left their homes, leaving behind memories and maps of the rocky plateaus, hilly plantations, waterfalls and beaches of Sri Lanka, the salt deserts, arid scrublands and coastal plains of Gujarat, the mountains, farmlands and infamous harbour of Fujian, known also as the starting point of the “silk road of the sea”, the forests and caves of Ipoh.

What did they expect, crossing the seas, when they finally set foot on a land whose name, derived from Sanskrit, meant lion city? Displaced from the lands of their ancestors and the homes of their births, they would soon forget their own stories of home. What was once memory, now lost and forgotten, like the winds that blow gently away at the sands of time.

But if I look back even further, if I dive into the darkness of the pool of my ancestry, beyond the abyss of time and remembering into the mantle of history to witness the first birth, my first mother, I will find her in the Northern Islands of Melanesia. Towards the end of the book, in the chapter, “Defeating Windigo”, Kimmerer writes that we all come from “people who were once indigenous”, and in genetically tracing my ancestry, I am beginning to understand why I have always felt drawn to the song of the sea, the tug of the winds in the sails of a boat, the beckoning of the stars like a celestial map charting my coordinates, pointing me home. On my right thigh, an anchor to steady the boat, and an eight-pointed compass star for direction.

Perhaps, I am remembering the way of my ancestors, who could once read the winds and the stars at the back of their hands, who one day sailed away from their islands and did not return, whose travels, migrations and displacements over land and sea over time has birthed me home on this new island, this island whose body of red hills, green forests and thriving coral reefs has been shaped by the sickled hands of men into a sinking first-world city. Like the non-native Flame of the Forest trees that hail all the way from Madagascar, my roots have sprouted and continue to tunnel deep into the earth in a land I call home.

I sing myself home as a child of ten in a field of green, wildflowers still wet in the grip of my fist. I sing myself home as I walk down a familiar road, navigating my way back home in a dream. I sing myself home at the edge of a lush, verdant field full of rolling hills, finding myself in another dream. I sing myself home as all around me, wildflowers and green fields turn into terrifying towers rising like pristine chimney stacks against the dazzling sky.




To be indigenous to land is to care for the land, to nurture and cultivate it so that it looks after our children long after we are gone. If we look to nature, we find that she is the best teacher, showing us how to tend to the gardens of our lives, through planting and watering seeds of gratitude, balance and reciprocity, and weeding out greed, strife and selfishness.

A few years back, I learnt the Hawaiian word Kuleana, which embodies the reciprocal relationship and responsibility we have with and to the land. Kuleana, I write this in green on my chalkboard door as a daily reminder to myself. Kuleana, my heart jumps with joy when two stray dogs lie in the empty field in front of my new home, where I now live in the northeastern part of the island. Kuleana, from my window, fourteen migratory egrets visit today in the field down below, wintering here all the way from southeastern China or Korea. Kuleana, the workers have set up wooden fences, they have wrapped you, field, in a ghost net of blue. Kuleana, they have sent in the excavators and towering blue cranes; so it begins. Kuleana, how do I still find the strength to sing on as their drills bore deep into the wet belly of the earth?




This time, the field is lush, full of vegetation that only takes on such girth when nursed by the tropical sun and rain. There are verdant, rolling hills, and wild animals grazing. I see boars and dogs together, and I know then that I am in another dream, and though my body now sleeps in yet another part of this island city, my mind is travelling in space and time, excavating the dream-world of the subject of unquenchable desire, a desire for home.

According to Martin Heidegger, the topology of Being is to dwell on the earth by means of building. Apart from physical buildings, language too can be a way by which human beings attempt to build their dwelling places. A prerequisite of dwelling is caring for one’s dwelling place, by cultivating and constructing home as we know it. The English word eco can be traced to its Greek origins oikos, meaning house. The house as a home, the earth as our first home, the home as the centre of our universe.




It is hard for me to return.

The field that used to occupy my time and imagination no longer remains. Instead, it is replaced by another estate of high-rise apartments, buildings that house nameless, faceless others, weeding their way into the field of my childhood, blocking off the view my mother used to have when she looked out the corridor from her chores. When I was a child, she tells me she loved to watch The Little House on the Prairie. Googling it now as an adult, I wonder if she too felt the prairie’s call through the screen, halfway across the world from Plum Creek, that unspeakable urge to burst out of the metal gates and launch into the open of an endless green. Her own prairie in the tropics, her daughter in the field.

Canadian poet Anne Szumigalski, who spent her formative years growing up in the prairie, acknowledged how its open landscape was “an enabling psychological space” for her writing. Reading that, I think back to how I would imagine scaling mountainous terrain when I climbed up the wee slope. Tiger moths, with their instinctive trust, would wander from flowers to the twigs I held, and to my fingers. I collected wildflowers of all sorts—Kanching Baju, Common Vernonia, White Weed, Cupid’s Shaving Brush—and brought them home to my mother, hoping to brighten up my home the way homes were brightened by flowers in vases in the English story books I read.

Like the prairie of Szumigalski, the field of my childhood was not bound to a beginning or end; there are no boundaries to a child’s imagination. From the Greek, peras, boundaries did not indicate where something stopped, rather, the Greeks recognised how, like horismos, or horizon, boundaries were places where things began their “essential unfolding”. The field unfolding into the prairie, the prairie unfolding into the world, the world unfolding into the self.

The field as the beginning of knowing, and in knowing, I navigate my way home.




Let me end then, with the beginning. Let me invent and narrate a new myth, one that pays homage to the fields of our childhood, the homes we have lost, the mothers who taught us the meaning of love.

In the beginning there was a field.

And a girl was born into this field.

That field, with its tiger moths, grass blues and wildflowers, was her world.

That world was her mother.

And the mother was good and beautiful, and she loved her daughter well.

Esther Vincent Xueming, is an editor, poet and educator. She is the editor-in-chief and founder of The Tiger Moth Review, an eco journal of art & literature based in Singapore, and has co-edited two poetry anthologies, Little Things and Poetry Moves. Her poems have been published locally and internationally, and her unpublished manuscript was a finalist for the Gaudy Boy Poetry Book Prize 2020 (New York). She is passionate about the intersections between art, literature and the environment.

On Witnessing Fires, One at a Time

by Hasheemah Afaneh

There is a long strip of untamed land between the road leading up to my paternal grandparents’ home in Jabal Al-Taweel and the Israeli settlement, Psagot. One can find shrubs, yellow grass, cactus, lost soccer balls, and even, more times than not, Israeli soldiers camouflaged into the land, watching the neighbors and their guests go about their days.

Over the past few summers, the Jabal Al-Taweel neighbor-hood witnessed a few wild-fires emerge in this untamed land. The grayish-black smoke rising into the skyusually gives the wildfire away before the actual fire does. Two summers ago, I was sitting in my grandmother’s veranda one evening, staring through the large windows out onto the street, when I saw sparks of orange appear in the shrubs. The neighbor-hood youth playing soccer outside on the pavement ran to their homes, including my grand-mother’s, to relay the message that a fire had started.

Al-dunya hamya,”  my grandmother, of whom I am the namesake, would comment matter-of-factly. The world is heated.

We watched the clouds of smoke grow larger, as Israeli soldiers emerged, as if from this air, to try and put it out. This swiftness of movement to action was not luck, or that a settler so happened to be adjacent to where I was sitting and she, too, was staring through large windows, and she, too, saw orange sparks appear. It was not luck, at all, for at least one soldier is always on the watch, watching us more so than keeping an eye out for the potential fires that happen every now and then.

This particular fire seemed to be getting out of hand, and so, the Palestinian firefighters were called, by whom, I can-not recall. They parked their fire truck on the road between my grandparents’ home and the untamed land and began their attempt to put the fire out. The fire seemed to be put out within thirty minutes, which was much shorter than the length that the smell of burned land lingered in the air, I’ll tell you that much.

The next afternoon, I was sitting with my grandmother and the neighbors as they spoke about the fire. The Jabal Al-taweel neighborhood women have witnessed the changing landscape - an olive harvest season that was not like what it used to be, threatening economic growth of Palestinian farmers; and settlement fences getting closer and roads getting tighter, threatening Palestinian access to land and movement.

Al-dunya hamya, one of the women remarks. The world is heated.

I thought of how this group of women were speaking about a symptom of climate change without realizing that they were speaking about a symptom of climate change.
I don't even think the Israeli soldiers realize this, as their first question post-wildfire was, “who started it?”, pointing fingers at the neighborhood youth and their friends.

Al-dunya hamya, or the world is heated is, in the literal sense, used to describe weather events. However, it has a metaphorical spin: the world is heated with struggle and strife. I reflect on how the United States has witnessed its share of moments this year depict-ing both the literal and metaphorical meanings of this phrase. Whereas in a small neighborhood in Palestine, the wildfires were extremely small, the fires that raged through the lands across the West Coast were on the other end of extremities. The world is also hot, so to speak, with struggle and protest in the wake of the murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and the many others we have and have not heard of. From Palestine to the U.S., we are collective witnesses to the changing environmental and political climates.

“See this picture?” The barista at a local coffee shop in New Orleans said, as she approached me with her iPhone. Her and I, like everyone else living through 2020, are witnesses to a world of social distancing and masking up, so she stretches out her arm, and without getting close but being close enough for me to view what she wants me to look at, I see a picture of a picture of a group of people in front of a home. It was a photograph taken in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, she told me.

“They came to help us clean up and fix our home. We need to go over there and do that,” she comments, nodding her head in the way that one does when their mind is made up. I smiled at the gesture, thinking, if only it was that easy to get over there. 

The over there she was referring to was Beirut, Lebanon. Just two days before, I was working from the same coffee shop she was working at, when a seven-second video of the August 4th blast circulated on the internet. We both were so taken aback when we viewed it that we  could not focus on any task for the rest of the day. For the barista, it brought up the memory of a rescue crew coming to help the locals after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina in 2005. For myself, it brought up the memory of when a gas tank blew up in the home next to mine, killing the father in the household. When I finally got ahold of the Palestinian fire department that day, I was asked, “Are you on the Israeli side [of the area] or the Palestinian one?” In other words, there are places that they would not be able to reach because of the Israeli occupation, even if they wanted to.

All the neighborhood youth, women, men, and elderly could do was witness the wildfire from across the street  and believe that it would be taken care of. In this particular area, they cannot run to stop the fires, even if they wanted to. It is not because they don’t care about the land. They cannot approach because they would risk their lives, and not because of the wildfire but because of open fire. There would be two fires to put out, and no one wants to be witness to that.

Hasheema Afaneh, MPH, is a Palestinian-American writer and public health professional based in New Orleans. Her work centers on social justice and various intersections related to it. You can find some of her work in the Fair Observer,
HuffPost, Shado Magazine, The Markaz Review, 580 Split Magazine, Glass Poetry Poets Resist Series, Poets Reading the News, This Week in Palestine, and others.
Her website is  She tweets at @its_hashie.

Keep Goin’

by Myliyah Hanna


In admitting to such, I reveal that a “quintessential” American childhood rite of passage was taken from me. Somewhere in a quaint suburban town, where the houses circle an untouched-by-potholes cul-de-sac, a mother watches her children, maybe two or three of them, cycle in loops on the driveway. Then somewhere in a city, with its gummy, concrete sidewalks, are Black boys standing on the pedals of their bikes as they race to the park to shoot hoops. Chicago is no stranger to bikers. In my neighborhood, families with their young kids and babies take morning rides. The kid’s helmet is usually covered in bright obnoxious cartoons. The people who ride them pedal forward, always forward, sticking their arms out to signal a turn. They wait for the green light like cars.

Growing up in New York means learning to speak the language of subways. Sit on this cart, by this door, to be closest to the station exit. Language is muscle memory. I was never taught to speak the language of bike chains and helmets. Yet somehow, in the eyes of the other, I am lacking. Everyone’s supposed to be able to ride a bike. It is always the ever-general “everyone” that gets me, the “everyone” who lies on the outside of its periphery because “everyone,” to this day, does not always account for the outliers.


I am seven years old. The day is sunny, spring temperature. We are in the Statue of Liberty Park in New Jersey, uncreatively named for the land’s proximity to the Lady in Green. I’m on a bike–pink, I think it is, with streamers on the ends of the handles that reflect blue and purple and green–and there’s some wind on my cheeks. My legs are moving and something warm, frothy, is welling up in my lungs. The wheels are spinning. Children in the grass, on either side of the bike path, are running with their kites, diamonds and dragons casting shadows over their heads. I’m moving faster than them. This is what it means to fly. Keep goin keep goin, he says from behind me. I am looking forward. I think I am happy in this memory. To call this new taste of excitement “happiness” is cheapening the jubilee in my smile, in the ecstatic shout that escapes my chest. I turn back to look at him–

This is where the memory ends. I do not remember my father’s face.


“Let’s go for a bike ride.” I’ve received an invitation just like this, or one of its many variants, plenty of times. We’d be out enjoying the nice weather, or inside lying on the couch and listening to music. I’ve made friends with a number of active, outdoorsy types. I adore these friends of mine, with their wide lawns and annual family vacations.

“I’d say yes, but I don’t know how to ride a bike.”

I know how their reaction will play out. It starts with a rapid-fire series of blinks. If you can count, it’s usually between three and five. Their brows slowly come together, mirroring the speed at which their brain is making sense of the string of words I just uttered. I imagine they’re picturing me on a bike, riding it, and yet their conscience is yelling no because that image is a fantasy. Then the mouth opens slightly or drops open if they’re more dramatic in their reaction. Something is just not adding up; everyone knows how to ride a bike. Yet here I am, telling them that I cannot do what that nosy son of a bitch “everyone” can.

For a long time, I didn’t understand the reason for the dramatic responses, the laughter. Not knowing how to ride a bike didn’t strike me as terrible–a phenomenon akin to committing some kind of white-collar crime. There wasn’t time to learn, there was no bike to learn on. This is what I would tell people at first.
Simply put, I would rather take the playful shock than deal with the pity that would inevitably come after telling them that the man who was once my teacher was no longer in my life. That would inevitably lead to a deeper, more invasive conversation about where he had gone, why fathers were necessary. And perhaps there would be some truth to their statements, but it would come from the same place that believed everyone should be able to ride a bike. The pity would be stronger, uncomfortable. Pity would imply that I am feeling pitiful about it, and that, simply put, is not the truth.


Most of my life was spent with my mother and sister. They were all I needed to be whole.

Sometime in my junior year of high school, I attended an end-of-semester award ceremony. Families flooded the auditorium–mothers and aunts preparing their phones to catch their prodigy walk across the stage.In the crowd were men–standing brusquely–chests puffed out like pigeons– waiting for the ceremony to get to the part that mattered. Speech, speech, yada yada–where’s my kid? Once it was time, their children would clamber up onto the stage to retrieve their award, get their spotlight, their fathers’ booming applause filling the space. And suddenly I was thinking about that day on the bike, details foggy and clear at the same time, so distinctly long ago that it could’ve been entirely made up.

It was the clearest memory I had of him.

It was a sudden thought. I focused my energy on cheering and clapping for friends who were called to the stage, who stood awkwardly while their parents ran up front to get pictures. Friends did the same for me. During that particular ceremony, I was called up quite a bit for math awards despite it being my worst subject. I was filled with something that felt like longing. It didn’t feel true to say that I was missing him at that moment. Still, the idea of his proud pat on my back seemed nice. It was just an idea, something never to be given a voice.


On Father’s Day, I will send a text to my uncle.


I am seven, I think. I am in a kitchen with its white walls and oak cabinets. There’s a bowl of soggy cereal in front of me; it’s colorful, saccharine. I don’t remember why, but I don’t finish my breakfast.

Something is missing in the interim, but I blink and I’m in the living room. The walls are lined with cardboard boxes; somehow their usual brown feels muted and grey. My sister is on the right of me, and on her right is Pam, a woman we understood, then, to be our father’s “good friend.” Sometimes she would bring us back home from Jersey after our weekend spent with our father at her house. We liked her, Pam, and she liked us. At this moment, her face was wrong; normally, she was smiling, but there was something deep in her frown. My sister and I read it to be sad. She is sad. And we are sad for her. What we as mere children understand as “sad” is much more than that. We wouldn’t learn of this difference until years later.

Across from us is a deep green, seemingly black, couch. And sitting on it is my father, knees spread, head low. I think he is wearing a cap. Or is it a durag? He is looking at my sister and me; I don’t remember his face. I don’t remember the width of his nose or if his ears stick out. I don’t remember his smell or the color of his shirt, or is it a football jersey? When I remember this day, whatever that means, I try not to think of him as the focal point. The blurring of his persona from my memory seems more significant. And yet, every time I return to this day, I am left thinking that this is the beginning of some kind of childhood trauma, as others would make me feel towards it.

“Alright girls, it’s time to go.” Pam nods her head in the direction of the front door, where our jackets hang adjacent. We follow our nonverbal orders well; our mother would be appalled if we were disrespectful to anyone, no matter the relationship. Still, something isn’t right. Neither one of us can explain what it is. Our father seems sad.

This is only a guess. I do not remember my father’s face.

For six months after this day, we will ask our mother why he hasn’t come to pick us up.


In the beginning of September, my mother and I rented a car and drove out west towards Chicago. It was a black Jeep Cherokee, packed strategically so we could see out of the back mirror and so the weight was evenly distributed.

She was nervous about me being behind the wheel. I hadn’t had my license for even a year when I decided that driving out there ourselves would be more cost-effective. I chased the dying sun for about five hours, eyes focused, foot switching between brake and gas. The route we were taking was straightforward, hundreds of miles, riddled with construction. 70 to 45 mph, rinse and repeat.

Somewhere in the middle of Ohio, I thought about the bike. Here I was driving a car, a vehicle responsible for more deaths than most Americans would care to acknowledge, and I still didn’t know how to ride a bike. A couple of nights before the move, I watched riding tutorials on YouTube. It looked easy and familiar even though I was certain I would fall on the first attempt. Maybe I was missing out on something after all. Or maybe I was starting to crack under the pressure. Not that there was significant pressure–I was never bullied or threatened for the lack of the skill. I just figured, with being able to drive, it would probably make sense to learn how to pedal and balance and control the brakes down a steep incline.

Those were zoned-out thoughts, things coming and going through my mind as I hit the gas and entered the unbroken highway.


It was winter break of my second year of college. I was sitting in the passenger seat of our then-car, a silver and smaller SUV, and the heat was going. The seconds ticked away on the phone call time. It was my father’s voice booming through the car door speakers, or at least as he told me. Until then I couldn’t describe the tenor or pitch, the gravel in his voice that came with age. When he first spoke, a bell deep in my subconscious struck once, twice, and the look on my mother’s face confirmed what I didn’t want to know.

“How are you?” I think he asked.

“…good,” I think I said.

“It’s good to hear you.” I paid no attention to the sentiment in his words. I responded to his probing as best as I could: yes, my day is going well; no, I don’t go back to school for a couple of weeks. I was stoic and uninterested. Yet I felt frustration thrumming in my jugular. Minutes later, my mother told him that we had more errands to run and ended the conversation. The music replaced his voice. For a moment, I thought it hadn’t been real. Maybe I was exhausted from school to the point of hallucination. My mother said, “He wanted to talk to you,” and I bit my lip to keep the sarcastic answer to myself. So it had been real. So that was his voice.

An hour after we returned home, his voice had penetrated our apartment. He called again and she answered and his voice was coming through the speaker on her phone. He was saying he got chased out of town, that he had no choice but to leave in order to protect us. In the back of his head, I imagine he hoped I would find his story a reflection of his valiance, his heroism, and think, what a guy!, but on the surface of my frontal lobe–

What a fucking sucker.

As he spoke, I was reminded of what I grew to understand. Younger, I didn’t have the words to fully articulate it, but I knew that he was mean for leaving us, for not saying why. He swept us out, hurrying us out the door before we could ask if he would get us again for the weekend. He didn’t hug us goodbye or help us put on our coats; no, he watched Pam fasten the buttons from the couch, staring past us. No matter of storytelling and explanation would change for me that he was, and perhaps would always be, a selfish man.

On the tip of my tongue was a lack of sympathy; my fingertips were itching to press the red phone button and end this futile attempt at fatherhood before it could begin. It felt intrusive and wrong. Before the phone call even began, my mother said she wanted me to hear him out. I was jaded by the sentence; why was I expected to make space in an already tiny box for him? There was no room for him, no space to give. I accepted that my family was my mother, my sister, and me. And sure, he had been there once–before remembering and having childhood memories meant something.

My mother and sister were listening, taking it in, faces contorted with questions. I thought about how the three of us have come to balance each other out. We established our routines and understandings of our personalities. In the midst of his phone call was one of the few times I couldn’t tell what they were thinking.

Once he hung up, silence spilled into the living room. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Silence like that–cold and stiff–a body dredged up from under the floorboards–unnerved all of us. I pressed the tendon between my thumb and my index finger for one, two, three, then release, then one, two, three, then release, until my sister sighed and the silence gave us a moment to reach out for breath.

I imagined for my sister the phone call was closure, finally being able to relax a fist that had been shut tight for years, muscles aching with tension. I listened to my sister and mother teeter-totter off each other, both nodding slowly and coming to conclusions from his words. Eventually, I removed myself from the conversation. I would grow to understand the human desire for completion, for the two ends of a circle to finally meet. One day I would feel that towards him. And one day this wouldn’t be an interruption–it would merely be an alternate route to the same place.

And I think, had he been truthful about being a changed man, that that is the end we all would’ve wanted.


Sometime during this fever dream of my father’s peacocking, I remember my growing persistence to understand why I needed to interact with him at all. In response, my mother said that the relationship with my father would affect my future relationships. I thought about the many times my maternal grandfather would call our house, sometimes drunk, sometimes plain irritable in his attempts to reconnect with my mother. “I didn’t think it would affect me,” she said, “but it did.” I shuffled it away in the file of Black mother wisdom.

As time went on, as I dated more, I think back to that conversation. How unfair, that parts of my life will somehow be guided and shaped by a man who wasn’t present in my puberty or the end of it. How on point, that the life of a growing woman is determined by the presence or lack thereof of her father, a man who chose to leave. Men are given choices, and women are given consequences.
I think about the women who sit at award shows, who attend the annual company barbeques, who no longer go after their passions in an effort to see their husbands through to their success. Soft, tender kisses to their cheeks. “You’re my rock,” the husbands will say; and in this teeny little box all of us exist in, we’ll read the husbands’ words as endearing. Unconsciously, we will know what the husbands mean: their greatness matters more than their wives’.

You were meant to be small.

I don’t believe my mother thinks I should shrink myself for a relationship. Still, I wonder why a man who made the conscious decision to leave deserves space in my life, why I’m encouraged to give him that real estate. I suppose the question, then, is what does it mean to live as an incomplete circle?


What is a daughter without her father?


Soon it’ll be March. The sun has started to peek its head over the horizon a little longer. Chicagoans are still wrapped in wool scarves. People are standing under the heaters on the train platform less. When it’s warm enough to wear just a cardigan, just a light jacket, I will climb atop a bike, one leg planted on the ground, a childish grin on my face.

When I take off, struggling to balance, I’ll think of the seven-year-old on her bike with training wheels and duochrome streamers on the handles, how she never finished learning how. I’ll keep goin for her. I’ll learn how to ride a bike, maybe on my own, or with the help of others. And maybe then we won’t feel the sting of others thinking we’re unfinished, somehow lacking. It’ll be the ending we deserve. It’ll be my love letter to her, my cheer and support–the world is too big to be trapped in such a small box. A girl like you needs all the space she can get.

Now start with one foot off the ground. And push, push, forward.

Myliyah Hanna is an upcoming essayist from the Bronx and a graduate of the University of Virginia. Her work has been published in Cheap Pop and Zora. She maintains a personal blog at She’s been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of Small Fictions award. She lives in Chicago with her cat Jasper. 

The Forests I Have Lost

by Theophilus Kwek

And, after all, it is to them we return.

Their triumph is to rise and be our hosts:
lords of unquiet or of quiet sojourn…

— Geoffrey Hill


The first was one I’d never even ventured into. It lurked on a low hill behind our house, and, by the time we moved in, had been parted down the middle like the Red Sea – or the neat path through my father’s hair – to shorten the journey to our MRT station. For years, I went to bed terrified of the creatures that might dwell within (Singapore’s last wild tiger was, alas, killed in 1930), before finally daring to cross it on my own, aged ten, to catch the bus to school. 

It must have occurred to me even then that our darkness-defying footpath, recently paved and still brightly lit, was a sign of things to come. But the developers dragged their feet and our forest stayed, unruly and unruled, to shield us from the world. On occasion, a ten-foot python would steal into someone’s drainpipe, but a quick call to wildlife rescue was all it took to return the creature to its haunts. For the most part, I grew up with friendlier neighbours: kingfishers on our back gate, the odd civet-cat, bats feasting among the fruit-trees next door.

We moved into public housing when I was twelve, and after seven years I moved again, to another country. So the end, when it came, was muted by time and distance; relayed, like the death of a relative, through cousins who still lived in the estate. 

What happened – I imagine – was this. One weekend, men with name-tags and shovels would have come to breach the fence around our forest’s fringe, clearing the perimeter for heavier equipment. Then the toughest work: trees sawn at the base, split and piled; denser understory dug from the earth. More men arriving afterwards with more machinery to stamp recalcitrant roots in place, level the overgrown hilltop to a surveyor’s plane. 

By the time I returned home, four years later, a housing project had taken pride of place at the top of the road. Someone had thought to name it ‘The Glades’, even if barely a sliver of the old canopy remained. All steel and glass, it barely seemed to fill the space: dwarfed, almost, by the ground beneath it. Even our home felt smaller. Stopping by one weekend, we realised the new tenants had re-done our yard, where a dishevelled palm had once held court. The new, neat porch felt like a scene from a film shot on location, with the plots of impossible lives layered over ours. 

With an image of that now-shaven hill in mind, I began to realise that I lacked a vocabulary for its disappearance. I had read plenty of books that dealt with more personal losses, but none that quite prepared me for this – losing a forest that I loved and feared at a distance. 

I come from a part of the world, after all, that has acquired new literatures as quickly as it has lost old landscapes. Poets and novelists from our region observe how built environments have been transformed by urbanisation and globalisation, turning established social worlds on their heads. Fewer have written about the contests that continue to take place on the city’s edge, pitting tightly ordered streets against the rooted knowledge of field or forest. 

This is especially so in Singapore, where I live. On the one hand, the loss of natural habitats has formed a rallying-point for civil society: over the last decade, the government’s plans to run a highway through different segments of the Central Catchment Reserve have earned sustained opposition from a wide and colourful lobby. But ruffled feathers do not translate easily into the landscapes of our imaginations. Instead, jungles of the concrete variety have come to lend their ersatz backdrop, of a flourishing literary scene with thoroughly urban sensibilities.

During my time abroad, I attempted to make sense of my lost forests by turning to a rich tradition of landscape literature in the English language – a genre which, in 2014, was being revived under the label of ‘New Nature Writing’. 

Many authors claimed their places in this lineage with close observations of local landscapes; from Gilbert White’s landmark Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne to Richard Mabey’s The Unofficial Countryside, a paean to the no-man’s-lands of the 1970s. More recently, writers like Kathleen Jamie, Helen McDonald, and Elizabeth Jane-Burnett were reinventing the genre, taking the natural landscape as a foil for the personal and global anxieties of a new millennium. 

All these writers could name native species as if they were friends, map every hollow of a habitus, or habitat, locations which they knew from inside out. But though their deciduous worlds welcomed me in, I still grasped for words to describe the uprooting of what had, for me, always been at arm’s length.

Like everyone else I knew growing up, my own forests grew almost exclusively in the past and conditional tense, as what had already been cleared to make way for the city, or what would one day be paved and signposted for a weekend’s walk. It seemed a privilege to have such intimate awareness of one’s landscapes, even to know where to look for a knowledge of what was gone. 

It was too late for me to tear down that fence at the edge of my wood – but here I was, miles from my own disappearing forests, trying to come to terms with a more peripheral loss. 


Flying home each summer became synonymous with such absences. Fighting off the jet-lag on my commute from the airport, I’d keep count of the new malls and condominiums that had sprung from once-empty fields. The forests of my childhood hovered like a ghostly presence above the shape-shifting landscape, refusing to give up their place in my subconscious. 

One year, it was the deep wood behind our church, yanked away like a scab to show the red earth beneath. The next summer, it was a forest that arched over the side-gate of my secondary school, the last outcrop of an overgrown cemetery dug on its slopes. Years after the graves were exhumed, the last pockets of remaining forest were to be replaced by astroturf. All that remained were the old columbarium’s jade-green tiles: the boys would have their artificial grass. 

Back in 2007, when I first went to school there, the Land Transport Authority announced plans to fell a century-old tree that stood by a traffic flyover behind the campus. The decision – ostensibly, to protect motorists who might veer too close to its trunk – was thought to be prime-time material, and every news outlet reported on the tree’s fate. What seemed to grate on everyone’s nerves was that two years earlier, the same Authority had chosen to preserve the tree by building the three-lane flyover around it, but now decided that this was too dangerous after all. 

Never ones to forgo a ‘teachable moment’, our teachers organised classroom debates around the Authority’s decision, taking the chance to fix sentence structures as we made fervent arguments about ‘The Disasters of Development’ or ‘The Powers of Compromise’. It may be that too long has passed since then, but I struggle to recall if any of us actually took notice when the old angsana was felled. Like other roadside trees that had become inconvenient, it must have been hewn down under the cover of night; branch by branch, and out of sight. 

This episode is memorable for many reasons, not least for what it revealed of a school that dared to prepare us for the big questions of running the country, but not always for the small truths of living in it. For more than 150 years, it had produced men who thought themselves planters and planners; under their leadership, a gregarious young country had come of age. By the time I enrolled, the school had come to see itself as no less than a seeding-ground for the city’s elite. 

One Chinese proverb puts it this way: it takes ten years to cultivate a tree, a hundred to cultivate a man (or a people). The character for ‘cultivate’ has shades of meaning; here, it reads as the verb ‘to nurture’, but also as the noun for ‘tree’. Just as a garden must be pruned before it comes into bloom, I can almost hear my teachers say, one’s character can only flourish if it is trained and taught. Needless to say, the old colonial institution found itself faithful to the task.  

In 2015, some years after I graduated, the school was designated as a nomination centre for the parliamentary elections, and I made my way back to hear the candidates make their maiden speeches. One of the ruling party’s new faces that year was an alumnus, who happened to be running in the same constituency where the campus was. Stepping up to the podium, he gestured to the high-rise apartments on all sides, reminded of how his party had turned ‘swamps into showflats’, a success mirrored in the life-stories of his prospective constituents.

Except, of course, it hadn’t – or at least, not here. A century and a half ago, Cantonese and Hakka immigrants had chosen the hilly, wooded area as a communal cemetery, and built two villages in the vicinity. One village came to be run by a federation of sixteen Cantonese clans, which oversaw a population of more than two thousand by the early 1900s. When the Japanese arrived in 1942, the high ground of the cemetery made it a natural staging-ground for many skirmishes, echoed in the bitter gang fights that erupted in the area after the British returned.   

From at least a century before the postwar government began its first housing project in Bishan, then, the area had been of no small significance to local communities, who negotiated their forested slopes into a precious resource for the living and dead. Perhaps I was naïve to expect more from a moment of glib electioneering, but something about how he waved history aside troubled me deeply. Our forests, it seemed, were forgotten long before they were even felled.


It is safe to say that no state has had a straightforward relationship with its forests. The word itself has tangled roots, signifying in Old English both woodland and hunting ground. Not long after the Norman Conquest, it became a legal term for the new aristocracy’s game preserves, and the ‘New Forest’ in South England was one of the oldest, so called. Later, the crown would find more uses for its forests: timber for the ships of empire, or vast tracts of land to reward loyal nobles with.

To those in power, forests have always been equally tempting and forbidding. Abundant in riches, yet careful guardians of secrets, forests are fertile for conquest, but lend a safe haven to the rebel and exile. Little wonder that so many tales of resistance are set in sylvan surroundings, from the Green Knight’s duel with Gawain, to Robin of Sherwood’s egalitarian heroics. These stories have since arrived on stage and screen, most memorably in Sondheim’s classic Into the Woods.   

Here, the same dynamics are evident. From the clearing of rainforest for plantation agriculture to the making of Western reputations on indigenous ‘discoveries’, Malaya’s forests were exploited by generations of colonial administrators, aided by the business classes that flourished on their watch. Early traders dealt in rare produce, while later merchants shipped rubber and tin to fuel a distant ‘industrial revolution’. The jungle itself was held at bay: one well-worn tale from my alma mater involves a former Headmaster shooting a tiger under the bar of the Raffles Hotel.

After the Japanese left, the Malayan National Liberation Army took to the woods for a decade-long guerilla campaign against the British, and the tiger came to stand for Communism itself – or at least, the righteous and unpredictable fury of the anti-imperialist movement. Singapore’s first Prime Minister, Lee Kuan Yew, was said to have won power by ‘riding the tiger’, but the image of a ‘Garden City’ that he later promoted was far more amenable to investors from the West. Without irony, the country successfully applied for its colonial-era Botanic Gardens to be accorded UNESCO World Heritage status in 2015, exactly half a century after political independence. 

Much of this history remains visible in our urban geography. Old Peranakan houses financed by the plantations of an earlier era still stand along Orchard Road, which now serves as our main shopping belt. The Thai Embassy occupies the site of one such mansion, first acquired by King Chulalongkorn in 1880. A stone’s throw away, the President’s official residence – built entirely by convict labour – sits on the sprawling nutmeg slopes of Mount Sophia.

Though sizeable tracts have already been lost to developmental projects, even the forests that survive are enlisted to the national purpose. During National Service, we’d drive out to ‘training plots’ across the island to watch 18-year-old recruits practice against an imaginary enemy. Occasionally, we’d find the ruins of demolished or abandoned villages, their crumbling walls now used as props for infantry maneuvers. No doubt, some of their former residents are still alive. Yet the Singapore they knew could well have been an altogether different place. 

These days, one hardly encounters ‘true’ forests in urban Singapore. Larger tracts line our landlocked reservoirs, and others fringe upon our mangrove waterways. Those closer to the city centre are whittled down or hemmed into ‘park connectors’, while rooftop palms cast a semblance of long-lost shade. We take perverse pride in our roadside trees and verges, tended to evergreen perfection by low-wage workers who spend difficult hours on these modern ‘plantations’. The Garden City remains verdant, while their labour provides the window-dressing.

In late 2016, Singapore made an appearance on Planet Earth. It was the city’s debut on the series, despite playing host to an astonishing range of flora and fauna (including five hundred species discovered in the past five years). As David Attenborough’s narration went on, cameras homed in on the gleaming ‘Gardens By The Bay’, a 101-hectare development at the mouth of the Singapore River, which, the producers hoped, would point a way forward for urban greening. 

Unmentioned was the fact that this billion-dollar project sat entirely on reclaimed land, part of a coastline altered forever through the bulk purchase of sand from across the region – not to mention the destruction of marine ecosystems. And all the more unnoticed: how the Gardens’ two iconic greenhouses, built on earth stolen from the sea, seemed to represent the way in which a country had tamed its forests at long last, building for them an oasis of air-conditioned calm.    


The lines at the beginning of this essay are taken from Geoffrey Hill’s poem, ‘An Apology for the Revival of Christian Architecture in England’ (1968), where they refer to the warm, cathedral stillness of the English church, open by custom – as they would have been in Hill’s day – to the homeless and destitute. There’s a wry nod to the 19th-Century architect Augustus Pugin (best known for having designed ‘Big Ben’), whose eponymous tract urged a return to an architectural style he saw as the ‘correct expression of the faith…and climate of our country’. 

Outside of the Anglo-Saxon world, those lines seem better suited for an older and more universal calm: the sense of earthy resolve that settles over us once we step into a forest’s hush. Despite our penchant for depicting forests as untamed and dangerous, they retain a capacity to carve reflective pauses out of our hyper-active days, even in the mere moments we spend beneath their canopies. Gone is the hard asphalt from beneath our feet. We feel the spring and crunch of leaves, a pleasing cool in the air, and the trees take us under their wing. 

It is for this reason, perhaps, that forests seem inseparable from belief. In January 2019, National Geographic ran a story on Ethiopia’s ‘church forests’, some of which date to the fourth century. Surrounded by harsh desert, these pockets of green envelop hand-painted buildings of wood and stone, lovingly maintained by the congregations of the Orthodox Tewahido Church. To them, the forest has always been ‘as much a part of the religious space as the church building itself’. 

A similar association persists in Singapore, albeit on a more prosaic scale. It’s hard to walk through any of our older estates without encountering a ‘tree shrine’: one of many meeting-places of Hindu, Taoist, and Islamic tradition, as ancient in their syncretism as this port-city itself. 

The question of where, and how, we worship is inextricably tied to what we rely on for a sense of welcome and security. Though our oldest ‘tree shrines’ are lost to time, it’s no stretch of the imagination to see how those coming ashore in an earlier era would have found, in the forests’ calm repose, a refuge from the threatening seas. Or how the trees’ agnostic shade would have afforded a natural gathering-place for those with few shared languages or traditions.   

The part of Singapore where my first, lost forest is located is known as Tanah Merah – literally, ‘red earth’. Among the manuscripts available to us today, the name first appears on a 1604 map of the island by the Bugis-Portuguese travel writer Manuel Godinho de Erédia. It was, as historians have surmised, a reference to the blood-red cliffs on the island’s eastern flank, which served as a navigational landmark for the orang laut, who have frequented our waterways for centuries. 

Those heights, once so reliable a guide, no longer exist, having been levelled in the 70s to extend our southeastern shoreline. Part of the area which became the housing estate where I grew up, while what was once known as Tanah Merah Besar (the ‘greater cliff’, as opposed to Tanah Merah ‘Kechil’, the ‘lesser’), was shorn down to make way for Changi Airport’s third terminal.

I like to imagine that my own tree-topped hill was once part of another history, a past that reaches much further back, and remains open to much wider possibilities than the timeline we have grown accustomed to. In that history, its indomitable forest still stands, the crown jewel of a long red ridgeline beaming welcome and journey’s end to those out at sea.

Being orphaned of that forest, what gives me a sense of refuge now are individual trees that, defying the city’s logic, have come to root deep in the mind’s terrain. In my final year at Oxford, I lived on the ground floor of Grove Building, an old house that looked over the city wall onto Merton Field, where James Sadler made England’s first hot-air balloon ascent in 1783. A tall redwood rose like a sundial over the lawn outside, throwing its deep shadow across my study table. 

Five years on, I am writing this in my office, nestled beneath the austere blocks of the Singapore General Hospital. Across from me, separated by a pocket of green, are the old dormitories of the King Edward VII College of Medicine, reassuring in their bauhaus simplicity, while a rain tree of unknown vintage reaches over the low buildings. On hot September afternoons, it casts a clean circle on the grass, as if inviting us to step away from our desks and breathe its cool. 

Trees such as these offer a universal, age-old belonging that seems radical in the modern metropolis. Unlike malls and cafes, islands of bourgeois respectability which have come to pass for ‘public space’; trees insist on their own place in the landscape, creating misshapen zones of rest, reverence, and play that are as safe as they are open. All are utterly welcome beneath their shade: their generosity, so unnatural to our present ethos, astounds us.

Lest we miss the forests for the trees, our true loss may well be this: a sense of the wider ecology in which we have lived and must live, a knowledge of the messy, mutual dependencies that belie the straight lines of our streets and stories. I started this essay to seek a language for the forests I had lost, but the histories retold here only begin to shed light on what new ways we might find to speak to each other. 

Words we might learn, that take our collective past and present into account. And make a path, perhaps, through the trees.

Theophilus Kwek has published five volumes of poetry and was shortlisted twice for the Singapore Literature Prize. His poems, translations, and reviews have appeared in The Guardian, Times Literary Supplement, and The London Magazine. He has edited several books of Singaporean writing and serves as editor of Oxford Poetry. His next collection, Moving House, will be released by Carcanet Press (UK) in June 2020. 

Notes from the Latigo Pasture: a Summer on the Colorado Steppe

by Bruce Hoppe

If the Latigo could speak it would say: “Don’t call me by that name. A tawdry developer’s hawking. West Coast investor speak. A peddler’s cinematic hustle to conjure up images to families of the chance to have their very own cul-de-sac piece of the Wild West out there on the Colorado plain. You will get me soon enough this I know. My great grassy expanse will bear the scrape and scour of hulking yellow diesel motors until I am carved into a modest domestic grid—a mélange of civilized defeat. But I am not done yet so don’t call me by that name.”

If the Latigo could speak it would say: “Call me by any of the names that I am. Call me by the name that tells of the crackling ricochet of static electricity as foxfire streaks along the top strand of barbed wire in the luminescent green shadow light prelude to the monsoon wizard’s tempest. Or call me by the name of the evening song of the male lark bunting as the summer solstice nears, the musical score of his refrain perfectly synchronized to a precise patterned arc of his flight. I am these things and more so call me by the names that I am.”

This is how it was back then. The prairie primordial. You could stand at its epicenter surrounded by an ocean of grass and lift your gaze to the far horizon there the gray-purple colossus called Pike’s Peak kept its fourteen thousand foot above sea-level sentinel watch over the plain. You could ride a horse past a badger boldly sunning himself on the dirt mound earthworks at the portal of his den. You could pause within a few feet of a nesting infant antelope blended into the tawny tufts of dried prairie plants and she would not run. Too weak yet for flight and in the absence of her mother’s defense her only chance instinct and hope.

The Ute and Arapaho knew these things even as they preoccupied themselves with their running territorial conflicts. The gold rushers hurried past these things in pursuit of the material, precursors to modern times. The famous rodeo cowboy Hugh Bennett ranched this country and the older locals still called it by his name. But before it was done, before it passed into memory there was one more traveler who came to know this land the way it was, its dreams, lies and whispers—its story. Only there for a very short time. He made do. In the native beauty of his surroundings his life and his notion of place became inseparable. When he left he took nothing with him but the thought of how near he had been to the impossible. For in truth there was nothing to take, save the memory as if a forge in which he would be relentlessly tempered for the road and the things to come.

Bruce Hoppe has received multiple New Mexico Press Association awards for journalism. His feature and investigative journalism articles have appeared in publications including the Union County Leader and the Boulder Weekly. He is the author of two novels: Don’t Let All the Pretty Days Get by and The Thomas Ladies Club. He has taught writing classes at Colorado State University, New Mexico Highlands University, and Luna Community College. When not at his writing desk, he can usually be found horseback prowling Colorado pastures.

Moving Sand, Moving Water, Moving People

by Heather Marie Spitzberg

As a child I lived on a narrow street
without shoulders or painted lines. Across the pavement was what we called the
swamp. Beyond the swamp was a small clear lake. Our feet entered that cool
water and emerged with cuts from mussels to become covered in sand and pine
pitch. I wondered about that sand, misplaced as it was, at the edge of the
otherwise rocky shore.

We shared that place with a scattering of
other homes and hundreds of hemlocks and oaks. I glided from water to land as
effortlessly as the beavers inhabiting the stream that fed the lake. My dad and
I regularly walked the stream, and I delighted in beavers slapping their tails to
warn others of our arrival.

In 1985 Hurricane Gloria doused us with
rain, wind, and panic. Birches weren’t supposed to be horizontal against a sky
the color of a yellowed bruise. After days of helping crews remove debris from
the roads, we inspected the river. A fallen maple created a new bridge to
cross. A sheared-off tree top blocked the deer path we followed. The beavers’
dam had broken. Water poured over the breached sticks and mud as it might out
of a pitcher. The animals had begun rebuilding in a different place, further
downstream. I wish my young self knew to study the advantages of that location
over the other.

In 1994 I stood on the shore of a
private-access beach, spiral-bound notebook in hand, salted air frizzing my
hair. Finished with my count of Piping Plover nests, I slid my notebook into my
waistband and walked to where the land ended at fast flowing water between me
and the next beach to the south. In the middle of the river that fed acres of
tidal marshes behind the beaches floated a brachiosaurus-sized machine that
scooped buckets of sand onto a barge.

The beach maintenance person told me they
were returning the canal to where it belonged after Bob moved it. He meant
Hurricane Bob, which had devastated the New England coast over two years prior.
Twenty feet away, on the other side of the flowing water, was a public-access
beach. Once the birds fledge, he said, they’ll pump sand on the dunes to
restore them, too. He pointed to where snow fencing and months-old Christmas
trees wrangled sand into a pile attempting to grow valuable dunes.

The naturalist in me held back a scoff at
the idea that a canal or dunes belonged anywhere other than where they existed,
no matter human need, history, or understanding.

The young woman in me who had been raised
by local government employees in the Country’s Live Free or Die state saw the consequences of twenty feet of shore
on tax base, tourism, and the owner’s sense of, well, ownership.

In the mid-twentieth century, my mom grew
up outside of Daytona Beach before moving north. The beach she knew formed one
half of a track with cars speeding onto the adjacent Route A1A for a race’s
second leg. Flattened dunes provided seating for the throngs of fans,
precursors to today’s NASCAR enthusiasts.

We visited throughout my childhood, years
after the beach was rescued from the racetrack. Dunes had been restored and
hotels built. Mom commented on the beach’s improvement, even with its risky
towers. Perhaps that was true, for a while. Until the sand eroded like the
snowbirds flying north in the summer.

In 2018 I visited a town in southern
Florida connected to the mainland by bridges. On the southern tip of the
island, at the end of a breakwater, squatted a round structure that looked like
a misplaced granary. Curious, I learned it was a decades-old sand pump that
became necessary with the expansion of a non-navigable entry to the
Intracoastal. The expansion interfered with natural sand drift, preventing sand
from traveling further south. Now, erosion on the shore to the north of the
pump created a three-foot drop between the dry sand where children played and
the wet area where waves crashed and joggers ran.

Around the corner from that pump station
stood a wall of white plastic sandbags. They were not temporary. Along with a
grassed berm, they protected a waterfront building that appeared less than a
decade old. A seawall and mighty boulders tried to hold back the waves, which
crashed into the rocks, spraying warm salty mist onto my eyelids. With tide in
half-way and the moon only three-quarters full, larger waves were assured

In 1987 we moved from that house across
from the swamp. As much as I loved the location, I never trusted it. Our home
sat dozens of feet higher than the grade of the road in a notch that had been
blasted out of a face of granite. I feared the boulders, and trees, and
millions of pounds of dirt hanging above us. None of those slipped; the water
got us. Pouring rain on the frozen ground created sheets of water flowing
overland toward the lake. The house held strong, but the window wells filled,
and thirty-six inches of water flowed into our basement. Our cat drowned.

We left for unrelated reasons, but it felt right.


Heather Marie Spitzberg has over twenty years of environmental science, law, and writing experience. She lives in New York’s Capital Region with her husband, twin son and daughter, and rescued dog, Thor.

Driving West into Gary on U.S. Highway 12/20

by Ellen A. Orner

Andy’s on 20 – Vienna Beef. Drifter’s Restaurant and Lounge. Absolute Air Heating and Cooling. Depot Dog – Vienna Beef. The People of Gary Welcome You. Need a Divorce?

Marsh grass. Cottonwood. Goldenrod. Mosquito swarm. Freight train. Amtrak. Another freight train. Honey’s Gentleman’s Club. PolekatZ. Lightning Fireworks – We Have What the Others Don’t. RomantiX. RomantiX. RomantiX.

Dune grass. Cottonwood. Sand dune. Honey’s 2. Laser tag warehouse with caved-in roof. All Mart Flea Market. Asphalt. Cinderblock. Discount Cigarettes. Ponderosa Steakhouse. Smog. Wing Wah Restaurant. Mufflers 4 Less. Used Truck Tires. Republic Frame and Axle. Fresh Fish. Temptation Gentlemen’s Club. Dunes U Store. Steel Transport – Safety Inspection Lane. Trailer park. Move Your Home Here – 219-938-0772. Semi Truck Parking. Deep Foundation Contractor since 1977. R&G Pallets. Pepe’s Mexican Restaurant. Shangri-La Gentlemen’s Club. Banquet Hall/Church/Full Kitchenette with Fridge/100+ Digital Channels/Free Phone for $696 per month with FREE SUNDAYS.

Jonathan’s Pancake House. Empty sign frames. Northwest Indiana Humane Society. Fortune House Chinese Dine-in. McDonald’s. Miller Beach Home Center. Arman’s for Jolly Good Food – Vienna Beef. South Shore Line Train Station. M & M III Beauty Supply – Dollar Gifts. Darnail Lyles, Esq. Attorney At Law. Cottonwood. Maple. Oak. Miller K Market. Fagen Pharmacy Liquor. Race Way Gas. Sporting Life Liquors. Healthy Smiles. Dom and Pete’s Point View Bar: Package Liquor, Fine Food. GoLo Gas. Cottonwood. Pine. Train tracks. Long line of 1940s pre-fabs. Smog. Power lines. Concrete. Road Construction Next 5 Miles.

Danger High Voltage. Pandora’s Show Club – Now Hiring. Junction Interstate 90. Milkweed. Marsh Grass. Hurt in a Wreck? 222-2222. Motel with green roof and no walls. Cottonwood. Dune grass. Ramp to Toll Road. Junction Interstate 65. Dunes Highway/West 12, West 20. Mint-green warehouse. Door 17. Red brick. Smokestacks. Road Construction Ahead. Walter Bates Steel Corporation. Rail Road Crossing. Centennial Processing. Rusted bridge. Rusted steel coils.

Dunes Court Apartments. Lake Street Express I: Full Line Groceries – Fresh Fruits and Veggies. Handmade signs. Painted brick houses. Yard with weeds taller than fence. Yard with close-clipped grass. Ivy on brick. Grass on roof. Life-sized Christ on cross.

Avila’s Auto Repair – Body and Mechanical. The Difference Between A Parent Who Hits His Child & A Parent Who Doesn’t…About 10 Seconds! SHARKS: 1 lb. shrimp $9.98. Freight train. Ambulance. Mr. Archie’s Grill and Sports Bar – No Standing Outside Vehicles. US Steel SteelYard – Home of the RailCats. Passenger train. Decommissioned steam engine. Junction Indiana 53. Life-sized statue of Elbert Henry Gary, Lawyer, Industrialist, Benefactor, Founder in 1906 of the City of Gary.

Lake County Superior Courthouse. Greyhound Station. Three-story brick houses. Wooden fence. Chain-link fence. Bright blue house. Molding yellow house. Charred cement house. Row of burned-out houses in pastels. New sidewalk. Row of dog runs. JR’s Liquors 2. Two-story brick houses. Single-story brick houses. Yards. Houses.

Ellen A. Orner is communications director at the University of Tennessee School of Art and reading series coordinator for The Sundress Academy of the Arts. She was the 2016 nonfiction editor for Grist: A Journal of the Literary Arts and nonfiction coordinator for the 2018 Best of the Net Anthology. She was born and raised in Gary, Indiana.

The Real-life Captain Mageds

Stories of Neighborhood Soccer Teams and The Occupation

by Hasheemah Afaneh

Between my paternal grandparents’ home in Jabal Al-taweel, which literally translates to long mountain, and an Israeli settlement named Psagot that did not exist when my father was growing up in Palestine, there is a long, gravel road that leads to nowhere and to anywhere. I only realized this last summer. A person walking, biking, or driving through will eventually hit a dead end, but when a U-turn is made, the road to nowhere becomes the road to anywhere: Ramallah, Nablus, Jericho, Jerusalem, Haifa – even Beirut and Amman. This road could be the start to the rest of the world, but couldn’t this be said about any road?

The neighborhood’s children and youth, a demographic to which my younger brother, cousins, and their friends from ages eight to nineteen belong to, use this gravel road as a soccer field. One of the children takes rocks and sets up the goals for both teams, and another brings a soccer ball. They shout and yell as they form their teams, and then, the game begins. Often, one of the players kicks the ball so high in the midst of showing off his skills that it falls near the settlement fence. It’s usually my cousin Alaa.

“Did you have to do that?” One of Alaa’s older brothers yells in Arabic.  

“I’ll go get it!” Alaa yells back.

“Alaa, yumma, why did you do that?” My aunt yells, too, if she’s sitting outside with my grandmother.

It is the same scenario all the time.

Alaa shakes his head and runs near the settlement fence to go get the soccer ball. The players stand quiet. My aunt stands up from the plastic chair she’s sitting on with her hand on her chest, and an Israeli soldier appears out of nowhere. Both my aunt and the soldier watch Alaa as he grabs the soccer ball and runs back to the road. My aunt sits back on the plastic chair and resumes conversation with my grandmother, and the soldier goes back to wherever he came from.

It happens all the time.

The summer after second grade formed my first memories of Palestine. My mother would turn on the television every morning to a channel called Spacetoon, the equivalent of PBS Kids, and my brother and I would watch the Arabic version of the Japanese manga called “Captain Maged.” The story revolves around intense soccer games, Maged, his friends, and his rivalries. I was obsessed with Captain Maged. I wanted to be him, overcoming my imaginary opponents in my quest to become a successful soccer player. It was a phase that took over my imagination that entire summer.

One day that summer, my mother, brother, and I were at the muntazah, a park filled with sand, slides, and swings not too far from our home, when someone had informed my mother that the Israeli military was imposing a curfew on our city-town. Mamnoo’ tajawwol, it was called, which literally translates to ‘not allowed to move’. A Palestinian man from our city-town had been killed by the Israeli military a block away from our home.

Yullah, yullah,” I remember my mother saying, with a panic filling her voice. Come on, come on. She walked us home as fast as she could.

The closer we got to home, the quieter our surroundings became. The road that leads to the entrance of our home was blocked by a heavy military presence, so we had to get home from the back entrance of my neighbor’s apartment building. The details become vague after this point, but I remember three things like they occurred only the other day. First, there was a military tank situated at the top of the hill northeast of our home – and straight across from where the man was killed – for three days. Then, there was no electricity at nightfall, so we relied on candles. Finally, a mattress was put on the floor for my brother and I to sleep on in case a bullet flew through one of the windows.

I don’t recall the man’s name, but I recall what people said he was doing right before it happened. He was coaching a soccer team of adolescents when soldiers shot at him, killing him instantly. I thought of how he was someone’s real-life “Captain Maged.” That was about eighteen years ago, shortly before my mother, brother, and I returned to America and before the second intifada was to erupt.   

In the summer of 2017, as I was on a bus in route to Jerusalem, I noticed that some children do not get the soccer balls back like my cousin Alaa, and like the unnamed man, they do not get to play freely in their neighborhoods. As the bus drove past meters and meters of the Apartheid wall, I noticed that there were soccer balls kicked up and caught into the barbed wire at the top of the eight-meter long concrete structure. I imagined the children yelling at each other for who would have to go purchase a new soccer ball. Perhaps they all chip in a few shekels to buy a new one. After all, the children didn’t put up the Apartheid wall. The occupation did.

I did not understand the concept of the “right to play,” one of the many rights violated by the Israeli occupation, until I saw how neighborhood soccer teams freeze in time as neighborhood soccer teams. That is not to say these teams do not become bigger and stronger. The neighborhoods of Palestine are filled with Captain Mageds, but their opponents are larger than the opposing team. There is a limit to how high they can kick the ball before its stuck in some physical barrier.

Hasheemah Afaneh is a Palestinian-American writer currently based in New Orleans. After living in the Palestinian Territories for years, she was inspired to pursue a masters degree in public health from Louisiana State University Health Sciences Center, managing to keep in touch with her passion for storytelling and writing while balancing her love for community health research. She blogs at and has written for various media outlets, including the Huffington Post, the Fair Observer, and This Week in Palestine.

SNOWBOUND by Ash Parsons


The first time I remember learning about a tragic death – I was a child, possibly eight, and my grandmother told me about how her uncle died.

Until this story, death was real, but Jesus had us covered, so it was okay. Besides, most people died in their hospital beds, which was good. We didn’t really go to hospitals. Bad guys on TV got shot, but then, they got what they deserved. I’m sorry, but you cash your chips.

However, my grandmother’s uncle – this nameless, faceless young or middle aged man, let’s call him Andrew – he didn’t die in a hospital bed, and he wasn’t a bad guy, and no one murdered him.

They lived in rural New York – black dirt good for growing onions, farm country, hills and valleys where it’s hard to see straight lines and Washington Irving would feel right at home.

Andrew was a young man. I guess. I think. I don’t remember, and no one can tell me. So. let’s say he was twenty one, and he worked for the Rural Power Authority. They finally got power to all the farms due to Roosevelt, that socialist, but God Bless the New Deal, anyway.

Snow storms in New York. No one needs a picture painted. Unless you’re a little girl in Alabama, sitting on rough carpet, making your horse figurines graze on brown shag as your grandmother tells you stories.



The snow was huge. Monster snow. On the ground the surface of it was ice-crusted, and it blew into drifts taller than the doorway. People wore tennis rackets on their feet. Those are called snow shoes. They wore them just to walk in it. To keep from sinking.

The cold broke glass fuses. Ice coated the power lines and snapped them. Or a tree cried out and tumbled, taking a utility pole with her.

The power went out.

Sister and I were born in such a winter, in a snowstorm at the farm. I was fine but my twin was a runt – like a skinned rabbit – small and sickly and so cold they had to put her in a shoe box before the wood stove – a homemade incubator.

Because we were twins, they gave us rhyming names: Laura and Flora. But everyone called Flora “Midge” because she was so small.

That’s your Great Aunt Midge.

But the snow, the snow that night – it came with banshee winds, banked and bucketing drifts – like an Antarctic landscape but with trees and narrow, twisting, shushing ski-slope roads up and down the hills.

Uncle Andrew worked for the rural power authority. Imagine him, child. No, he’s not wearing a newsboy cap. No, he’s not wearing knickers. He’s wearing a long fur coat – black as Astor’s hat, black as his hair, it looks like his hair has grown down to cover him, like a caveman or an animal, and he’s got so many layers on he looks forty pounds heavier. The worst of the storm is over, and the cold is so crisp you feel it could crystalize the moisture in your lungs as you breathe. Uncle Andrew has a job to do. He has to go out, in the snowshoes, in the coat and matching hat, and he must follow the power lines to find the breaks.

They called it “walking the lines.”

Uncle Andrew said goodbye to us. I was his favorite. He twisted a lock of my hair, dark like his, around his finger and tugged it, saying “Stay awake until I get back, Laura.” Mother swatted him with her apron for that. She was the big sister, and he was incorrigible. But the job was good, even though it was cold. It was a job. It was the Depression.

Mother packed him a thermos of coffee and a bacon sandwich and urged him to stop if he needed. Father told him to watch his step in the drifts.

Andrew smiled and said, “Don’t worry.” And he walked out. The snow was bright in the late afternoon, as the sun broke through the clouds for just a moment. It blazed a path across the snow-packed farmyard, golden, like the path that Dorothy followed, a Technicolor bright thread in a world of white.



Thinking of Judy Garland, Andrew set off, placing each foot as if they were on separate rail road ties, the snowshoes his parallel carriages.

At first it was easy. The next farm wasn’t far. The lines led him there, clean as a nun’s conscience. Straight as an arrow. He knocked and accepted the Ferguson’s hospitality – a cup of coffee and a biscuit by their stove. Then he set off again, following the line forward. A black line, crusted with ice or snow, sagging in some places, broken in others. When he’d find a break, he’d take out the Authority map and mark the spot on the grid with an “X.”

He found half a dozen like this before dark. At the farms, he’d stop, warm himself by the stove. Clear the ice crusting his nose. Farmers started pouring brandy in his coffee. The last sent him out with a flask of moonshine. “To keep warm,” the square-handed man had said, slapping Andrew’s shoulder and squeezing, telegraphing Dutch fortitude.

Andrew thanked him, and pressed out into the darkening night. Liquid warmth weighted his belly. One last section to go, and he would be done. He walked the lines as the moon rose full and bright. The lines threw fine, curved shadows across the snow.

One last section to go, and the snow started to fall again. Just a dusting on top of the deep drifts. Just a light fall, church-whisper soft.

Andrew pressed on. The snow clung to his snowshoes in great iced blocks, freezing and refreezing on his boots. The big fur coat was heavy across his shoulders, less warm than weighty, dragging at him.

Following the lines which followed the rutted country road, he reached the part he’d been dreading; the creek, now frozen and hulking, spanned by a narrow bridge, and where the power lines and the road parted ways. The country road crossed the brook and twisted around a rock formation, weathered and crouched like Old Scratch himself, stubborn in perdition.

The lines crossed the creek and then slanted away from the road, crossed a small meadow, and sloped down the hill behind the rock formation. There the lines ran through a small glade and rejoined the road on the downward slope.
Andrew crossed the bridge, and set off across the meadow. Each step was a struggle as the drifts grew deeper. Blowing like a plow horse, Andrew slogged on, pausing only for swigs of burning moonshine.

The lines led into the trees. The going was easier, the glade creaking under the weight of the snow. It was darker, but still bright enough to see, the moonlight filtered and reflected all around. Every now and then, a bough shrugged, or snapped, and a showering thump of snow descended, knocking other branches, shaking needles loose, shedding snow like a bridegroom shedding his shirt. Popped buttons, dropped cufflinks, sudden naked limbs.
Andrew couldn’t tell when it happened. If he could have done that, he could have found his way back. But somehow, he lost sight of the line. Perhaps it had snapped under the ice. Fallen into a tree, then been covered by new snow, until the glade was as seemingly untouched by humans as a fairy tale forest. No sign of axe or wire, no power line, and no poles. The gentle snowfall had erased Andrew’s footprints behind him like birds eating breadcrumbs.
Andrew searched for the line. He walked steadily forward, using the moon to guide him. No pantywaist city slicker, he forged on. He drained the flask to slake his thirst and warm his innards.

Maybe he never even panicked.



When they found him, he was frozen. His eyes were ice. His lips blue, his skin rigid. The great fur coat was open. The snow that continued to fall covered him, almost all of him, his dark hat, his shoulders, his hands, child-curled on his chest. The road was twenty feet away. The next farm was a quarter mile from that.

And I want to ask now, and maybe I did ask then, “Did he lay down?”

Did Andrew choose to lay down in the snow, or had he simply failed to get up after falling? Did all that brandy take a different toll? I can’t ask now. There is no one left who knows the story.

I can’t ask my grandmother, lost in a snowbank of her own a decade ago, frost white sheets, pillows, and nurses’ uniforms. She watched the lines of the IV, as it dripped the not-enough morphine into the rutted track of her vein, and moaned, “How long is this going to take?”

I can’t ask my parents, gone now as well. The loss of them, a wrenching theft, torn away by howling winds, and we didn’t even know the storm had gathered.

So I wander, walking the lines. Trying to restore power. Hoping for the flickering filament of faint recognition. But there’s nothing to follow. The lines are not just down, not just tangled. The lines are gone. They disappeared in the obliterating fall – white speck upon white speck – devouring the landscape of my grandmother’s stories, my mother’s stories, my father’s stories. Snow drifts, swept into illogical and precarious places, shrouding everything.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter if I remember perfectly. I tell myself that specificity doesn’t matter. What matters is feeling. The stories fill up the gaps in me like water fills cells.

But the stories disappear. Their pages eaten by acid, flaking away into dust, a dry burning erasure, until it’s too late, and I’m left with a smattering of words and images, like ice pellets hitting the glass, pebbles that scatter and melt before I can see them. My memory becomes an imagining, knowing I’m doing it, questing about for the story, having only the feeling. I fill in the blank spaces. Not just of his story, but of mine. What happened to him, and where was I when she told me about it? And then my imagination stretches out beyond to the larger story – why did she tell me? Did I ask? Or was she feeling melancholy, remembering him, and wanted to give him extra life in me?
Did I remind her of him? Was she trying to warn me? Tucked inside during a mild Alabama winter, teaching me to be careful of blizzards. Don’t trust the snow. Don’t trust your own body. The warmth is false. You’re dying of the cold. Never trust the surface of things.

It only takes a moment. It only takes a single mistake. It only takes the one thing you couldn’t foresee.
My own little one, with your toys and your tangled hair, I wish you could stay here forever – in the circle of your loved ones. Where even loss is cushioned by the shelter of your elders around you. Stay here, in your feeling of security.

Once, when I was a child, my grandmother looked at me, and felt the same way.

Little one on the carpet before me, little girl with your toy horses, how I wish I could protect you. Here is a story, about the cold, about danger, and trying to do your job. About the night and the deceiving snow, and my uncle, your Great-great Uncle Andrew, who worked for the Rural Power Authority and who died in a snowstorm.

Ash Parsons is the author of YA novels The Falling Between Us and Still Waters (Penguin -Philomel). She is the winner of the PEN Phyllis Naylor Award and an Alabama State Council on the Arts literary fellowship. She has taught creative writing for Troy University’s ACCESS program and Media Studies for Auburn University. She lives in Alabama with her family.