
We're a group of fellows and community members holding the @kundimanforever Board of Trustees and Co-Founders accountable. #PACBI #BDS
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ALT October 31, 2024 We are pleased to learn that Ricco Siasoco, Wylie Chen, Chia-Chee Chiu, Nina M. Chung, and Katrina Venturina have all resigned from Kundiman’s Board of Trustees. Kundiman’s Board is now comprised of community members who are committed to leading Kundiman through a just transition, centering consent-based arts work, community agency, and justice. Thank you, everyone, for supporting our work over the past year. We look forward to rebuilding Kundiman together. PACBI NOW!

ALT October 31, 2024 We move forward with a series of goals for Kundiman: — Prioritizing staff and community healing and repair — Implementing a model of power-sharing between the organization, its staff, and the community — Reaffirming our commitments to the full breadth of AAPI literature and the people who produce it, starting with a leadership team and programming that reflects the range of communities the organization seeks to serve — Developing a transparent process for adopting PACBI PACBI NOW!

ALT October 31, 2024 How you can help: — Follow @Kundiman.community on Instagram and @KundimanUnity on Twitter for updates. — In the interest of accountability and fairness, Rana Tahir no longer remains a part of the Kundiman Community group. As new Kundiman Board President, Rana invites you to connect at [email protected] with feedback and ideas about best ways to move forward PACBI NOW!

ALT Translating Falasteen and The Sameer Project launched a fundraising campaign to support families in Gaza facing severe hardships. Their mission is to provide essential aid to those who need it most, especially families with specific and urgent needs. Please donate to this fundraiser providing food, water, diapers, milk, medical aid, and other necessities to North and Central Gaza: chuffed.org/project/help-us-deliver-vital-aid-to-gaza-families-in-need This fundraiser can also be acessed at: linktr.ee/thesameerproject

ALT Mizna and ArabLit (2023) “Not Just Passing” Heba Abu Nada (1991-2023) translated by Huda Fakhreddine Yesterday, a star said to the little light in my heart, We are not just transients passing. Do not die. Beneath this glow some wanderers go on walking. You were first created out of love, so carry nothing but love to those who are trembling. One day, all gardens sprouted from our names, from what remained of hearts yearning. “Not Just Passing” - Heba Abu Nada (transl. Huda Fakhreddine)

ALT Mizna and ArabLit (2023) And since it came of age, this ancient language has taught us how to heal others with our longing, how to be a heavenly scent to relax their tightening lungs: a welcome sigh, a gasp of oxygen. Softly, we pass over wounds, like purposeful gauze, a hint of relief, an aspirin. O little light in me, don’t die, even if all the galaxies of the world close in. O little light in me, say: Enter my heart in peace. All of you, come in! “Not Just Passing” - Heba Abu Nada (transl. Huda Fakhreddine)
![Heba Abu Nada, an acclaimed Palestinian poet and novelist, was killed by an Israeli airstrike on her [aunt’s] home in Khan Yunis, Gaza, on October 20, 2023. She was thirty-two years old.
One year on from Heba’s death, Somaia Abu Nada pays tribute to the life and work of her beloved sister.
*
Dear Heba,
Do you know how difficult it is for an ordinary person like me to describe a distinguished writer like you? My English vocabulary feels too limited to capture your essence. Yet I know how much you cherish these scattered letters when they come together to create something meaningful.
From “Somaia Abu Nada Remembers Her Slain Sister, Heba Abu Nada, Palestinian Poet and Novelist”
By Somaia Abu Nada
LitHub (October 2024)
(Photo of Heba Abu Nada)](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Gaqmm5OXsAAWQva.jpg?name=small&format=webp)
ALT Heba Abu Nada, an acclaimed Palestinian poet and novelist, was killed by an Israeli airstrike on her [aunt’s] home in Khan Yunis, Gaza, on October 20, 2023. She was thirty-two years old. One year on from Heba’s death, Somaia Abu Nada pays tribute to the life and work of her beloved sister. * Dear Heba, Do you know how difficult it is for an ordinary person like me to describe a distinguished writer like you? My English vocabulary feels too limited to capture your essence. Yet I know how much you cherish these scattered letters when they come together to create something meaningful. From “Somaia Abu Nada Remembers Her Slain Sister, Heba Abu Nada, Palestinian Poet and Novelist” By Somaia Abu Nada LitHub (October 2024) (Photo of Heba Abu Nada)

ALT It feels almost unfair for me to have grown up admiring your every step, holding your hand, and always dreaming of getting closer to your level of perfection. As your younger and only sister, your courage to speak out about yourself and our people has inspired me to become who I am today. You were the first person to teach me who we are as Palestinians, and why it is so important to write about our lives. I still remember you were the first hand that held mine on my way to kindergarten. I remember how you used to save part of our pocket money so we could buy sweets after school. It’s been a year since I last talked to you. I find myself asking how I can reach out to you. When I look to the sky, I think about sending my voice to you. Sometimes, I try to speak to you when I’m alone or even in the middle of a crowd. I whisper, “How are you today?” “Are you happy?” “Have you found your everlasting paradise?”

ALT I try to talk to you whenever I see a butterfly, a flower, a sunset, a sunrise, a beautiful baby, or a cute kitten; whenever I feel a cool breeze or warm sunshine; when I come across a lovely notebook, an elegant pen, an interesting recipe; when I smell an enchanting perfume, hear a silly joke, discover a new song, or stumble upon a classic place, or simply when I gaze at the night sky. Everything genuine reminds me of you, Heba. I feel delighted when you visit me in my dreams. But there isn’t enough time in a dream to fill you in on all the details of a year packed with life. It’s been a year! 365 days without your smile, without your boundless kindness, without our sisterly bond. I might be getting better; recently, I found myself able to cry over you. I want to cry every second. Life has become endless shades of black and white without you. From “Somaia Abu Nada Remembers Her Slain Sister, Heba Abu Nada, Palestinian Poet and Novelist” By Somaia Abu Nada LitHub (October 2024)

ALT Dr. Refaat used to volunteer for and manage the social media account of the Municipality of Gaza. To honor him, please donate to the fundraiser to ensure clean water access for the people of Gaza: gaza-city.ensany.com/campaign/6737 If you have trouble donating directly, you can also use: workshops4gaza.com/bookstore

ALT "Over the Wall" Refaat Alareer 1979-2023 'There,' points Grandma. She had a tent that was a home. She had a goat and a camel. She had a rake and a fork and a trowel. She had a machete and a watering can. She had a grove and two hundred plants. She had a child and another one and another one. *** 'There,' she insists. I could not see Because of the wall. I could not hear Because of the noise. I could not smell Because of the powder. *** “Over the Wall" - Refaat Alareer

ALT But I can always tell, I am sure of Grandma Who always was And is still And will always be. She smells like soil. And smiles like soil. And blinks like soil When touched by rain. *** She has a house that is a tent She has a key And a memory. She has a hope And two hundred offspring. *** Grandma is here But lives there. “Over the Wall" - Refaat Alareer

ALT "Over the Wall" Refaat Alareer 1979-2023 'There,' points Grandma. She had a tent that was a home. She had a goat and a camel. She had a rake and a fork and a trowel. She had a machete and a watering can. She had a grove and two hundred plants. She had a child and another one and another one. *** 'There,' she insists. I could not see Because of the wall. I could not hear Because of the noise. I could not smell Because of the powder. *** “Over the Wall" - Refaat Alareer

ALT But I can always tell, I am sure of Grandma Who always was And is still And will always be. She smells like soil. And smiles like soil. And blinks like soil When touched by rain. *** She has a house that is a tent She has a key And a memory. She has a hope And two hundred offspring. *** Grandma is here But lives there. “Over the Wall" - Refaat Alareer

ALT "With a heavy heart, I mourn the loss of my great professor and dear friend, poet Dr. Refaat Alareer, who was killed with a number of his family members by an Israeli airstrike on his sister's home in Gaza on December 6, 2023. Refaat was a professor of English literature at the Islamic University of Gaza for more than fifteen years, during which he taught thousands of students. His influence on the person I am today is immeasurable. I met him in 2017 when I was just a shy student, reluctant to speak in front of an audience, especially in English. He encouraged me to read my poems aloud and write short stories that he helped publish with Novell Gaza, the American Friends Service Committee, and other outlets. From "Remembering Dr. Refaat Alareer" By Nadya Siyam Words Without Borders Complete text: https://wordswithoutborders.org/read/article/2024-01/remembering-dr-refaat-alareer/

ALT I’m not interested in talking about Kundiman just because it’s an organization that means something to me. I want to talk about Kundiman because it connects to a question that has haunted me this past year: How is the Israeli state, funded and backed by America, allowed to continue slaughtering and displacing Palestinians? Part of the horror of this last year has been watching the machinery assemble to justify and rationalize this killing. The killing is carried out by weapons and soldiers but fueled by lies—the lie of Israel’s innocence and Palestine’s savagery, the lie that violence can bring peace. The lies require many people and institutions to repeat them, from heads of state to media outlets to universities to community groups to citizens, until the lies are so normal, so internalized, they almost feel true. It's chilling to see these lies take hold in the last place they should—a community of writers with ties to Palestine, or ties to lands that have survived similar occupati








