Tag: Randa Jarrar
Flash Fiction: Her husband wants to know what she had in common with the Turkish sailor.
A new partnership with PEN American Center kicks off with a story from Randa Jarrar.
On a recent trip to Israel, Randa Jarrar gets detained, denied entry, and sent to the “Arab Room.”
“Self,” she queried, “should we just kill him and be done?” She smoked, exhaling through her nose like a dragon.
What themes preoccupy these five Arab-American writers? Body image, war, sex, and pizza. Arab-American literature is American literature, says our guest editor Randa Jarrar.
I was like the oracle of fatness all of a sudden.
“Better to believe that you come from two happy parents.”
The year we went to the Camps, my sister Leila was eighteen years old and had just begun her secret affair with Sammy.
I was in the bathroom stall at the Armenian chicken place in Anaheim when I overheard Sarah say to her even more annoying friend Abeer at the mirror, where they were both putting on gobs of makeup, “I’m just going to kill myself, habibti, if I don’t make the triple axel at the championships next month.”
He drank bourbon out of an unpacked glass, and talked about a photograph of him, me when I was a baby, and Muhammad Ali. “I have no idea where it is now,” he said.