Propaganda - Issue 2 by WriteTheCity

WRITE THE CITY

P R O PA G A N D A issue #2, winter 2017

Write The Cit y P R O PA G A N D A

ÂŠ 2017, Write the City Mag All content in this publication may not be copied or republished without written consent. Copyrights of individualsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; work are held by the relevant author and requests for reproduction should be made to them.

Lorenzo Berardi – editor Vlad Guzman – editor in chief Snizhana Chernetska – design

Introduction

Propaganda is a topic that creates controversy, and yet, one which is utterly hard to write about. Ever-present as it is, whenever we attempt to speak of it we lean towards raising our voices against the propaganda of the other, forgetting that one under which we live. The stories collected for this issue were unique in the way they address the topic. It was a tough task to choose them, and the timing made the realization of this issue even more complicated. However, there is no obstacle that canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be surpassed, for us to open this space for the Other voices. Enjoy the thoughts on propaganda coming from many different cultures and experience, and make sure to follow our page for the next edition.

Vlad Guzman

8-12

Olya Rusina

41-45

Kilka słów prawda Some words of truth 14-16

Bartek Adach

Cold rusty scissors 18-20

Dor Pasich

Nonsense free poem 22-31

Arpi Atabekyan

I forgot your face (Armenian) I forgot your face

Naklejki – Stickers 46-47 Stefan Fiedler Don

From men to minds 48-49 Henrietta Bobric

Observations 51-57

37-39

Leyli Salayeva

59-61

Eszter Kállay

Personal propagandart

One room city The street of double-decker balconies

Sandra Rose England

Check mate The web The good king

33-35 Cleffy Ibrahim Sorie Bangura

Secrets and lies

Tamara Leigh Sagathevan

Acknowledgments

Olya Rusina is from Kyiv, Ukraine,

and has studied journalism in Krakรณw for three years. She loves writing - from articles and essays and translations to books for children. She is currently learning photography.

Kilka słów prawdy 9

Napisałam raz tekst o propagandzie. Probowałam zrozumieć, co to jest. Jak to się przejawia w życiu codziennym. Bo przecież się nie przejawia. Nie odczuwam tego. W istocie propagandy leży kłamstwo, a nigdy w życiu nie skłamałam. Lubię rzeczywostość, w której żyjemy. Owszem, nie jest doskonała, w różnych zakątkach świata wciąż się dzieją złe rzeczy, walka o terytoria, nieuczciwe reżimy polityczne zmieniają życie setek tysięcy ludzi. Całe szczęście, że nas to jednak ominęło. Nie ominęło wcześniej innych. Doświadczyli tego nasi rodzice. To oni właśnie wyjaśnili nam, co to propaganda, dzięki nim wiemy, jak wygląda. Dlatego rozumiemy, że my nowa generacja - dzisiaj jesteśmy wolni. Możemy wybierać, co chcemy. Mamy prawo głosować na kogo chcemy. Całe szczęście, że po prostu wiemy, która opcja jest najlepsza. Pozwala nam to na bycie pewnym siebie i swojej przyszłości. Nie obawiamy się o nią. To są słowa, które powtarzamy sobie często, a nawet mamy cały czas z tyłu głowy: całe szczęście. Mamy szczęście, że żyjemy w XXI wieku, że nie stanie się juz nic tak złego, jak zdarzyło się poprzednim pokoleniom. Wiemy, która opcja jest najlepsza i ją wybieramy. Nie wierzymy we względność: jak się jest dobrym i uczciwym człowiekiem, to nim się po prostu jest, bez dwóch zdań. Nie zmieniamy zdania co chwilę, trzymamy się swojego. Dzięki temu nie musimy codziennie zastanawiać się, wahać się, wybierać, rozmyślać się, omawiać, namawiać, rezy

gnować, wycofywać się. Ufamy sobie nawzajem - jeśli mój przyjaciel podpowie mi w trudnej sytuacji, której strony muszę się trzymać, zaufam mu. Dlatego też lubimy ten świat: nie ma nieufności, jest wiara, zawsze możesz polegać na innym człowieku, wiesz, że się nie pomyli. Jest to piękny świat. Nie musimy zdradzać i zmieniać przyjaciół. Wiem, jak to wyglądało jeszcze w zeszłym wieku - każdy podejrzewał każdego, każdy musiał dbać o siebie sam, nie wiedząc, czy nie zostanie jutro okłamany, czy nie zniszczy to jego życia. No właśnie - kłamstwo. Propaganda to przede wszystkim kłamstwo. Gdy przedstawia się rzeczywistość taką, jaką wcale nie jest. Gdy zmienia się zasady, cechy, właściwości, racje. Jesteśmy na to odporni, wśród nas nie ma miejsca dla kłamców. Trzymamy się swojej racji i jesteśmy bezwzględni wobec tych, którzy stanowią dla nas zagrożenie. Wobec tych, którzy kłamią i zaburzają nasz piękny świat prawdy i zaufania. Tak więc opisałam ten świat i już sami się przekonaliście, jak cudownie wygląda. Szkoda tylko, że skłamałam - przecież był to tekst o propagandzie.

A few words of truth 11

ENG

I wrote a text about propaganda once. I tried to understand what it is. How it manifests itself in everyday life. Because it does not. I don’t feel it. The very essence of propaganda is the lie, and I have never lied in my life. I like the reality, which we live in. Still, it isn’t perfect, bad things are still happening in different parts of the world, the fight over the territory, unfair political regimes change the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. Fortunately, that has circumvented us. That hasn’t circumvented the others. Our parents experienced it. It was them who explained to us what propaganda is, thanks to them we know what it looks like. That’s why we understand that we - the new generation - are free today. We can choose what we want. We have the right to vote for who we want. Fortunately, we just know which option is the best one. It helps us to be confident about our future. We are not afraid of it. These are words that we repeat often, and even remember about them all the time: fortunately. We are lucky to live in the 21st century, and nothing will ever be as bad as it was with previous generations. We know which option is the best, and we choose it. We do not believe in relativity: if one is a good and honest man, then he just is, without a doubt. We don’t change our minds all the time we stick to our ration. Thanks to this, we do not have to think, hesitate, choose, deliberate, discuss, persuade, give up, and withdraw every day. We trust

each other - if my friend tells me in a difficult situation, what I have to do, I will trust him. Therefore, we like this world: there is no distrust, there is faith, you can always rely on another man, you know that he won’t make any mistake. It is a beautiful world. We don’t have to reveal and change friends. We know what it looked like in the past century - everyone suspected everyone, everyone had to look after himself without any certainty whether tomorrow he would be lied to or whether his life would be ruined. Exactly - a lie. Propaganda is primarily a lie. It’s when a reality is presented in a way it doesn’t exist. When the rules, characteristics, properties, reasons change. We are immune to it, there is no place for the liars among us. We stick to our reason and we are ruthless towards those who threaten us. For those who lie and disturb our beautiful world of truth and trust. So, I described this world and you’ve already seen how wonderful it looks. It is a pity that I lied - after all, it was a text about propaganda.

author: Olya Rusina

Bartek Adach

Bartek Adach is a Philosophy student at the University of Warsaw and the lead singer of the band Prometidion.

Cold Rusty Scissors 15

We felt heralded change of weather with the wind of uncertainty So they have decided to close the garden And are turning it into a glasshouse With majority’s permission As the most of us prefer to be cultivated In guaranteed conditions Which fit in the definition of so-called “well-being” Instead of blossoming freely Allowed underhand dealings Cut fragile buds of independent reason With leaders’ cold rusty scissors So welcome to the happy prison

Perverse technocracy found Perfectly fertile ground For programmed machinery of orderly lies So easy to recognize with its arrogance Yet, somehow this scheme always repeats Within the circularity of history Sacrificed freedom on the altar of promised victory Even if we don’t know the identity of real enemy Being too busy as hostages of our own fear Perhaps we are not able to learn anything From the past And what is the worst about it Is the fact that chosen ones Ruthlessly usurp the right To control the past now And will do so in the future Self-proclaimed masters of time Kings of grotesque if watched from the outside Parasite shepherds leading through vicious circle Releasing providers from the burden of thinking

author: Bartek Adach

Dor Pasich

Dor Pasich is a word artist, civil rights activist, and proud to be both Polish and American. New poet. Old feminist. Presently involved in street protest non-parliamentary opposition activities in Poland. One of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;black protestâ&#x20AC;? emissaries to European Parliament in October 2016. One-time resident of NYC, Hilversum in the Netherlands, currently splits her time between Warsaw and Ramsgate, South Africa. Communications and content creator by profession. Obnoxious and unbearable. Shoe size 40, left breast smaller than right.

On propaganda. Words can kill. Words can heal. Recently a man torched himself in the very center of Warsaw, in front of the Palace of Culture and Science. He meant this as a form of political protest. After ten days of agony he died.

At this, I am speechless. I have no words. I can only offer a poem. It was created on October 29, at about 5 PM, during a poetry workshop I was participating in. About one hour later, the news that Piotr Szczęsny, “Szary człowiek” has passed away broke through. I dedicate this poem to “Szary”. Rest in Peace.

Nonsense free poem WARSAW Oct. 29, 2017

If I get to choose to be what I wanna be, in my next life It is the sea. I wanna be free from mother, daughter, son, man or woman No sense Nonsense. Forgive me father for I have sins, no sons, no daughters No sense Nonsense. Just me. Just sea Free what I wanna be. Finallyâ&#x20AC;Ś ?

author: Dor Pasich

Arpi Atabekyan

Arpi is an Armenian author who was born in Yerevan in 1989.

I forgot your face 23

Whatever was left from Yerevan nights … was singing I and then suddenly – boom and another piece of Yerevan exploded. No, sorry, they exploded it. One building less, one building more. Once in the daylight they were destroying a mosque, then a church, then a publishing house and in-between little stuff like the building at Aram street, the circus, etc., well you know it. And today they nibble the hotel Dwin, slowly, but persistently, until the teeth reach the first bones of the spine and until the last piece of flesh is over. So what is left from Yerevan nights to me and you … That love did not last long, Yerevan. In the beginning you did not love me, you used to say – “You are not a city girl”. Then one night we were drunk or what, you had already forgotten me, from the head of the table to the other side you looked directly into my eyes and said – “So, girl, where are you from?” And that is how began our short, tangible love story with ups and downs. But then I left you. I said, I might never come back. Might, I said, not maybe, so that you did not think there is a hope. You pretended that you don’t care. It is fine. I have heard that you have cried after me, drunk a couple of glasses, two of which vodka, you have said, if she comes back I will never let her go again. But then everything got more complicated, a couple of cities entered in-between us, one of them Eastern and the other has not decided yet to which world it belongs to. And now different parts of your body explode, one by one like malign tumors and you do not know where is the next one and when. Boom! And the windows and the doors break, the last papers thrown in the air, everything with all it had, your history, your loves, your past, your children one by one eats

up a big, dark, illegible emptiness that reminds more of a stupidity and hanging the heavy and thick tongue licks around itself and stares with dissatisfaction at … let’s say at the Corn-cob building … ah sorry, that one is past already long time ago … thing with all it had, your history, your loves, your past, your children one by one eats up a big, dark, illegible emptiness that reminds more of a stupidity and hanging the heavy and thick tongue licks around itself and stares with dissatisfaction at … let’s say at the Corncob building … ah sorry, that one is past already long time ago … I wouldn’t say you are the city of my dreams, my pink dream. I know how much you hated when they were calling you Pink Tufa City, My Pink friend. Pink? Tufa? What are talking about, hey, I am a city guy, I have nothing to do with pink. You have even said, your grandma is pink. Yes, and you were not wrong, aunty Rose, who despite of her varicose would not hesitate to exit from one entrance of the building next to the Saryan street post office to the other one to take a glass of sugar (today her grandchild was visiting her and she had to feed the thirty-year old baby with her goodies) and in-between the glass of sugar, the sugar can and the cover managed to find out if the neighbor Rima’s daughter finally went through all the phases of impregnation and finally which position does she prefer with her partner. You are disgusted that all this, all of this is happening on the surface of your body, next to your pimples and fuzz and sometimes right in-between them, You feel used (as a public space) and maybe contaminated (literally), because in the different corners of your body there are peeing (in the best case scenario), spitting (with the greatest pleasure) those with whom you cheated on me. You started to “make money” with them, put your “bro”s around your table, turned them into your messmate and toastmaster and godfather, but never a “wifie”. And to me you said – “Go, woman, it is not a place for a girl, go to your room, sit in front of the mirror”, but my big head and eyes would not fit into it. And you did not hear how I closed the door after me, not the door of the bedroom, but the house door, and you did not hear how I said … I might never come back … But I loved you with all your imperfections. Or I was thinking so. I had even put up with the fact that Vardan Mamikonyan is angry at something and already many years (maybe even centuries) he has pointed out his five fingers and showing something, but the stupid pedestrians do not see it, and with the fact that Andranik (not the Ando from our neighborhood) is standing on two horses (you don’t know why) and despite that fact his pants has no fractures. Where are those now, for whom you opened on yourself clubs and cafes and entertainment centers with mysterious names. I have heard you have let them open malls on you, why man? Are you a shopaholic? And since I have started to talk about your statues, which have leaned and hunchbacked you with their bronze or gypsum heaviness, let me say that I will never understand you for Njdeh’s statue. I saw it once from the back, didn’t even look at the face and asked to myself – Why, my pink brother, why don’t you shake yourself “like a guy”, why don’t you rub your back on your ancient doors and edgy corners of your matt walls in order to get rid of this boring, heavy, wrong, lukewarm itch. Hm?

Whatever was left from Yerevan nights … And what was left from your nights? A feeling was left to me, a nudity, till now, after all, I still feel nude and unprotected on your “boyish” body that is pushing me away as strong as it can, pushes out from all the dimensions of its space. Ha, a topic of a thesis was left, and when people hear the title many of them will say o, some will say ah, some will say a meaningful hmm, a couple of “good guys” will say what is it, sister, the tribe will not understand and will calculate topic+years vs. numbers of children = 0 property, a very complicated equation. And you, you will not say anything anymore, I am late, your mouth is sealed with a blue sticky tape that you can rip off any moment you wish, as your hands are free, but not your mind. 25

author: Arpi Atabekyan

Whatever was left from Yerevan nights â&#x20AC;Ś

«Ինչ որ մնաց Երևանի գիշերներից … » երգում էի ես, մեկ էլ հանկարծ` դըդըխկ ու մի կտոր Երևան էլ գմփաց: Չէ’, կներե’ք, գմփցրին: Մի շենք էս կողմ, մի շենք էն կողմ: Մի ժամանակ օրը ցերեկով մզկիթ էին քանդում, հետո` եկեղեցի, հետո` տպագրատուն, էդ արանքում էլ մանր-մունր էլի, Արամի փողոցի վրայի շենք, ցիրկ-բան, դե գիտեք: Իսկ էսօր կրծոտում են Դվին հյուրանոցը, դանդաղ, բայց համառորեն, մինչև ատամները հասնեն ողնաշարի առաջին ոսկորներին ու վերջանա վերջին կտոր միսը: «Իսկ ի՞նչ մնաց Երևանի գիշերներից ինձ ու քեզ …»: Երկար չտևեց էդ սերը, Երևա’ն: Սկզբում դու ինձ չէիր սիրում, ասում էիր` կենտրոնի աղջիկ չես: Հետո մի օր խմած էինք թե ինչ, արդեն մոռացել էիր ինձ, սեղանի մի ծայրից մյուսը ուղիղ աչքերիս մեջ նայելով ասեցիր` ո՞ւրդու աղջիկ ես: Ու տենց սկսվեց մեր կարճ, հպանցիկ, վայրիվերումներով սիրավեպը: Հետո ես քեզ լքեցի: Ասեցի` գուցե երբեք հետ չգամ: Գուցե, ոչ թե երևի, որ չկարծեիր` հույս կա: Ձևացրիր, թե մեկ է: Ոչի’նչ: Լսել եմ, որ իմ հետևից լաց ես եղել, խմել ես մի քանի բաժակ բան, որից երկուսը` օղի, ասել ես որ գա, էլ չեմ թողնի` գնա: Բայց հետո ամեն ինչ խառնվեց` արանք ընգան մի քանի քաղաք, որոնցից մեկն արևելյան, իսկ մյուսը դեռ չի որոշել` որ աշխարհին է պատկանում: Իսկ հիմա պայթում են քո մարմնի տարբեր մասերը, մեկ առ մեկ, մարմնում տարածվող հիվանդակիր ուոռուցքների պես` չգիտես` հաջորդը որն է լինելու և երբ:: Գը-գըմփ, կոտրվում են նորից դուռ-պատուհան, վերջին թղթերը` հօդս, ամեն ինչ իր էղածչեղածով, քո պատմությունը, սերերիդ, անցյալդ, երեխեքիդ մեկ առ մեկ լափում է մի մեծ, սև, անհասկանալի դատարկություն, որն ավելի շատ բթություն է հիշեցնում ու հաճույքով դուրս գցելով ծանր ու հաստ լեզուն ճպպոցով լպստում շուրջն յուր` անբավարարված հայացքը հառելով դե ասենք` կուկուռուզնիկին … ինչ եմ ասում, էդ մեկը վաղուց անցյալ է… Չեմ ասի, թե դու իմ երազանքի քաղաքն ես, իմ վարդագույն երազը: Գիտեմ` ինչքան ես

ատել, երբ քեզ ասում էին` վարդագույն տուֆի քաղաք, իմ վարդագույն ընկե’ր: Ինչ վարդագույն, ինչ տուֆ, տուֆտոում եք, արա’, ես` կենտրոնի տղես ուր, վարդագույնն ուր: Նույնիսկ ասել ես` վարդագույնը տատդ ա: Այո’, չես սխալվել, Ռոզա ծյոծյան, ով չնայած վարիկոզին չէր զլանում ու Սարյանի փոստի կողքի շենքի մի մուտքից հպանցիկ անցնում էր հաջորդին, որ մի բաժակ շաքար վերցնի (Էսօր թոռն էր գալու և երեսունամյա երեխային պետք էր բտել տատիկի բարիքներով) ու մի բաժակ շաքարի, շաքարամանի ու փակվող ռեզբայի արանքում հասցներ իմանալ` արդյոք հարևան Ռիմայի աղջիկն ի վերջո անցավ բեղմնավորման բոլոր փուլերով և ի վերջո որ դիրքն է նախընտրում նա իր զուգընկերոջ հետ: Դու զզվում ես, որ էս ամեն ինչը, էսքան բանը կատարվում ա քո մարմնի մակերեսի վրա, քո պզուկների ու աղվամազերի կողքին, իսկ երբեմն հենց դրանց արանքում: Դու քեզ զգում ես օգտագործված (հասարակական տարածքի տեսանկյունից) և գուցե կեղտոտված (բառիս բուն իմաստով), որովհետև քո մարմնի տարբեր անկյուններում չիշիկ են անում (լավագույն դեպքում), թքում են (գերագույն հաճույքով) նրանք, ում հետ դու դավաճանեցիր ինձ: Դու սկսեցիր իրանց հետ «փող շինել», դրեցիր ապերներիդ սեղանիդ շուրջ, քեզ սեղանակից ու թամադա ու քավոր դարձրիր, բայց ոչ երբեք` «կնիկ»: Իսկ ինձ

ասեցիր գնա` կի’ն արմատ, էս աղջկա տեղ չի, գնա քո սենյակ, նստի տԸրյումոյի դեմը, որի մեջ ոչ մի կերպ չէին տեղավորվում իմ մեծ գլուխն ու աչքերը: Ու չլսեցիր` ոնց փակեցի դուռն իմ հետևից, ոչ թե ննջարանի, այլ տան, ու չլսեցիր, ոնց ասեցի` գուցե երբեք հետ չգամ … Մինչդեռ ես սիրում էի քեզ բոլոր թերություններով հանդերձ: Կամ տենց էի մտածում: Նույնիսկ համակերպվել էի նրա հետ, որ Վարդան Մամիկոնյանն ինչ-որ բանի վրա ջղայնացել ա ու արդեն քանի տարի (իսկ գուցե դար) ձախ ձեռքի հինգ մատը չռած ինչ-որ բան ա ցույց տալիս մարդը, իսկ բութ անցորդները չեն տեսնում, և նրա հետ, որ Անդրանիկը (մեր թաղի Անդոյի հետ չեմ) երկու ձիու վրա է կանգնել (չգիտես` ինչու) ուչնայած այդ հանգամանքին` նրա տաբատին չկա և ոչ մի պատռվածք: Իսկ ուր են հիմա նրանք, ում համար դու քո վրա բացեցիր «կլուբներ» ու «կաֆեներ» ու խորհրդավոր անուններով ժամանցի կենտրոններ: Լսել եմ թողել ես, որ մոլեր էլ բացեն, դու հո գնամոլչե՞ս: Ու քանի սկսել եմ խոսել արձաններիդ մասին, որոնց բրոնզե թե գիպսե ծանրության տակ կքում ու կուզիկանում ես դու արդեն վաղուց, ասեմ, որ Նժդեհի արձանի համար քեզ երբեք չեմ հասկանա: Նայեցի թիկունքից մի անգամ, երեսն էլ չտեսա ու մտքումս հարցրի` Ինչո՞ւ, իմ վարդագո’ւյն եղբայր,մի անգամ «տղայավարի» թափ չես տալիս քեզ, մեջքդ քսում բազմամյա դռներիդ ու գաջած պատերիդ սուր անկյուններին, որ ազատվես էս տաղտկալի, ծանր, սխալ, գաղջ քոսից: Հը՞: «Ինչ որ մնաց Երևանի գիշերներից …» Իսկ ի՞նչ մնաց քո գիշերներից: Ինձ մնաց մի զգացողություն` մերկություն, մինչև հիմա, ամեն ինչից հետո ես դեռ ինձ մերկ ու անպաշտպան եմ զգում քո «տղայական» մարմնի վրա, որն ամբողջ ուժով ինձ վանում է, բրդում դուրս իր տարածքի բոլոր հարթություններից: Հա, մնաց մի թեզի թեմա, որի մասին լսելուց շատերը կասեն` օ, ոմանք` ա, մի քանիսը բազմանշանակ` հմ, մի քանի լավ տղա կասի` էդ ինչ ա որ, քո’ւրս, ցեղը չի հասկանա ու մտովի կլուծի թեմա + տարիներ vs երեխաների քանակ = 0 անշարժ գույք բարդ մաթեմատիկական խնդիրը: Իսկ դու, դու էլ ոչ մի բան չես ասի, ես ուշացել եմ, քո բերանը փակել են կապույտ «իզալենտով» արդեն, որը կարող ես ցանկացած պահի պոկել, քանզի ազատ են ձեռքերդ, բայց միտքդ` ոչ:

Cleffy Ibrahim Sorie Bangura

Cleffy is the pen name of the 25 year-old Sierra Leonean poet and musician Ibrahim Sorie Bangura. Born in a subsistence farming village in Lungi, Cleffy migrated to the capital Freetown in 2011 to escape rural poverty. He survived on the streets for several years before joining WAYout, an Arts organization supporting street youth. He is now studying music production and creative writing. Cleffy was recently shortlisted for a prestigious Commonwealth Writers Poetry commission.

Secrets and lies 34

We lay down on our backs on a fire floor Like old fools for you to walk on us. We mounted your names and your aims Included you whenever we prayed But you said in your guts we were sons of slaves. We said you were the right one The saviour. We forgot you are the worst one The man who sold his innocent House cats to death for pennies. I will never call you boss man. Your black mirror is black indeed I see nothing but the face of your greed Your dark heart working with your faded brains Calculating, consuming the Stateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cash like green grains. Fake patriot, patrician politician with evil veins. Your words were good on the face But with acidic saliva at the base. Venomous leader with venomous aims. Embezzler, fraudster, scallywag, gambler Gold-digger, predator, idiotic rambler.

You pretended to be deaf, blind, simple, kind But when you heard the voice of your people Stomping on the air, you stepped aside Like a mouse dodging from cats to hide Disregarding the masses, swallowing house funds on rides. We cherished, honoured and laboured for you. Like warriors we fought for you. We tossed our hopes to you. You discarded them like empty shells Called us paupers, novices, illiterates. You said we were immaterial.

You fed us propaganda to forget our poverty. You said we were fools. From us you got food. You used us as bait, beans on your plate. We still have your vows in our hearts Pooling in our blood like dead fish in poisoned water. Darkness is inferior to light; secrets to truth. You took our courageous national development to swell your vanity Turned our resilient, resplendent ideals into your insanity. What can you say that is not lies? Our ears are cloths.

author: Cleffy Ibrahim Sorie Bangura

Leyli Salayeva

Leyli Salayeva is a writer and performance artist from Baku, Azerbaijan. She writes poems and short stories in English and is not afraid to tackle feminism, sexuality and gender equality subjects. Leyli has authored an award-winning children’s book ‘Dilber and Her Spoonful Journey’ and two poetry books in English - Twelve Thirteen (2014) and Youtopia (2016). Youtopia received Honorable Mention at 2016 London Book Festival.

One room city

This city becomes smaller and smaller and there is no place where we can hide, not a single cell for an unbound couple no cushion, bed for us to rest on. This city is a jealous mother whose supervision never ceases. Her eyes are every fallen leaf, her ears – keen gusts of the wind. We could explode with million feelings, each as intense as nature in spring. Taking the lead in decomposition of a destructive “self-denial” role. So we can escape from the cloying city away, towards undiscovered paths. Or we can sew transparent coats that will reflect toxic critiques.

The street of double-decker balconies 39

Peaceful street with tall ramose poplars, reeling from side to side in a welcoming gesture. Brown balconies with square windows rimmed with white, like London double-deckers. Long for eternal summer embodied in iron sunflowers embracing the corner green balcony. And moss-grown wall under decrepit window, holed curtains and a slim geranium. This street keeps memory of mixed years and hundred neighbors, catching laughter and clickety-clack. Morning call of a plum dairyman and evening knock of domino and backgammon. Women’s twitting about Salima’s new satin dress

and trail of roasted onions. I mentally teleport to 1980’s, taste of full cream ice and sunbeam in my palm. Candid faces of strangers addressing each other as Comrade. Pink silk laced bows and bread kvass from blue booth. Dear city council please don’t replace this street with callous avenue, please leave it as a tribute to my Soviet youth.

author: Leyli Salayeva

Tamara Leigh Sagathevan

Tamara is a South African lass living in Warsaw. Her passion is storytelling with data and visualizations, which she is lucky enough to do for a living. Contrary to popular belief it was not her love for pork and cabbage that brought her here, but rather her love for potatoes.

Naklejki – Stickers 42

I stay in a modern area. We have short apartments vs. towering blocks, and more hipster functions than you would care to attend. I take a special pride in the forest and park. I pick up the litter and I curse the crows for throwing out the trash. I move the snails away from the dangerous pathways. I shout at the kids when they swear, and giggle when they do it in English. I am passionate about complaining about the weather. This is my home.

− A frosty winter morning, time to walk my dog, my faithful companion, Felix. Like me he understands English and Polish. I spend a lot of time teaching him; I am always paranoid he may get lost and won’t understand the people who find him. My accent is terrible you see. We step out, the smell of the woods strong in the fresh icy air, he is trotting contently beside me. I see a small change in my daily scenery, but it glares at me, stuck on all the lampposts angry white stickers. Shouting anti-immigrant and anti-Islamic slogans. They’re in Polish and have pictures, there is no mistaking what they mean. Shock turns to embarrassment and then anger. I start to tear off every single one of them. The poles feel icy and catch the soft skin on the pads of my fingers, glue and dirt start to congeal under my finger nails. It’s a dirty job.

Cleaning up my hands in my bathroom, I attempt to distance myself from this situation. I am not the type of immigrant they are referring to. I am a good “citizen”. I am frienly to everyone. I am not even a Muslim! Eventually the noise of my rhetoric blocks the incident from my mind. This is my home, and I have the PESEL to prove it.

− I witnessed the drowning of Marzanna a few weeks ago and I am beginning to fear it was not done properly. Spring hasn’t fully arrived, I can’t wait to feel the sun again, although Felix seems happy enough that there is new grass and children about. “Chodż Felix, spaaacer.” – I tell him, as he digs in his heels to look at some passing children, for the third time. He reluctantly follows, then bounds away as his nose catches a scent. I always smile when he behaves this way. A car stops next to me, quite suddenly, a group of men inside it. - “Allahu Akbar!” The driver screams, while simultaneously throwing an empty can at me. His friends are cackling, howling and shouting. The people around me look at the scene. They do nothing, say nothing. Felix is marking his tree, blissfully unaware that the person he loves most has just been attacked. Rooted to the ground, I watch as the car turns into the car park across from me. I’m just a few meters away from home. What if they come out and beat me, will anyone help? What if they harm Felix or if he gets loose in the commotion? God! I suddenly cannot remember how to shout for help in Polish! How will I convince them I am Christian? Can I directly translate John 3:16? I scoop Felix up in a frenzy and walk back towards my home, with the feeling that someone is behind my back, but I am too afraid to turn around. I am inside now, door locked securely. I see that I had left my favourite Polish movie playing, Sami Swoi. I feel a strange helplessness coupled with imposter syndrome. Why was I watching this?! Why didn’t I do anything?! I feel a quickening burning rage. I want to slap the drivers face! Maybe smear dog sh*t on his windscreen! That would teach him! Instead, I write a pleasant letter, leave my phone number and stick it to his car. I ask if we could talk and learn from each other. It doesn’t happen, and I do not finish the movie.

It’s nearing the end of summer. I feel paranoid. I enforce my own stereotypes. Stupid things that I feel keep me safe. If anyone is wearing Adidas or camouflage, I walk the other way. If a group of people are approaching me in the forest, I move quickly towards the untrodden parts to avoid them. My boyfriend feels uncomfortable with my fear: - “These were some random idiots from Praga! They are troglodytes! Those stickers are brainless words.” he reasons 44

Using a lack of intelligence as the reason for their behavior doesn’t work for me. Saying that they are from across the river doesn’t make me feel removed from them. I know he is trying to soothe me, but I don’t feel like I am wanted here by at least 38% of people. That’s what the latest poll says anyway. Felix and I have fed the ducks on our walk today. We are almost home, and on the lamppost, next to my settlement gate, is an angry white sticker. I am unnerved that this was the only sticker and it was on our lamppost. I tell my boyfriend. He still says, this is my home.

− Autumn now, but this year it feels like the harshest South African winter to me. This weekend I stayed indoors, I was afraid to go out to the Old Town or anywhere for that matter. My boyfriend says he saw someone in our parking lot carrying flags – I wonder which national march they decided to join? I wonder if this person is one of my neighbours. We stay in and eat pork kotlets and cabbage. I avoid the news, while he absorbs himself in it. It’s Monday, time to face the music, the world news reports that 60,000 took part in the march. I can’t imagine so many people all chanting that this is a white Poland and that I am not wanted here, so I try not to. We’re returning from our last walk for the day, muddied boots and paws. I see a sticker, on our lamppost, I know what it says, my heart starts racing. Wait, this sticker looks different. It has been torn off. I look at my boyfriend and say; ‘This is a new one – did you tear it off?’ ‘No, I didn’t even see it.’ – he squints to look at it, not for long, Felix has pulled him away to the door, he needs to get home ASAP, he has a new toy. I watch them go and look at the lamppost again. Someone else tore this sticker off. Someone else thinks this is my home. author: Tamara Leigh Sagathevan

Stefan Fiedler Don

Stefan is an 18-year-old Costa Rican volunteer living in Poland. Driven by Eros and Thanatos, like any other. But mostly by Eros. He is just a guy with many ideas, and the energy and will to realize them.

From Men to Minds

author: Stefan Fiedler Don

Zzzum! There! You see? A bullet Idea, Fired from The rifle Radio. Did it you? strike Let in the corruption Of Ideology? Perhaps not this one â&#x20AC;&#x201C; But how many have? What thought is Your own In this Civilization Of pathetic Illusion? Have you been poisoned enough That you now help turn The wheels Of Hate and War?

Do you feed off The breast of Disdain? Is your spirit Red Blue Or Yours? Have you been Segregated into A Spiral of Silence? Where your voice Is but a squeak, And your Truth But madness? Have you learned to read For their memorable Affiches; To listen For their Speeches; To think For them? What Humanity have we lost Through propaganda?

Henrietta Bobric

Henrietta Bobric was born in Transylvania and is 19 years old. She is at Romance studies at the Eรถtvรถs Lorรกnd University in Budapest.

Observation

We were brought up in a world where we’re slapped in the face with ads in every second, where even questions are lies. They say we’re shameless, although we’ve been listening to juggleries ever since we were born – and they are amazed by the amount of fury that lies inside our chest, by the sadness that inundates our brain and that we flee from our own selves, yet take to senseless consumption. They whispered spumy disgusting fairytales and think we’re dumb because we believed them. They hauled us over the coals to be honest plus virtuous then laughed in our faces if we did so. They burn us to ashes and dust when we trust and tell the truth. Communism was no class, lame, week, bootsy and extenuate,

taking it all round, because… propaganda is what we breathe in. Propaganda is the sunshine twinkling on our lashes at the first streak of dawn. There’s propaganda in the rolling wheels and under them. Propaganda is the water we drink. Propaganda is the grievance we swallow. Propaganda is the threadbare flag of crushed blood vessels. Propaganda is the sparkling urban vertigo. So all in all, I’m propaganda too, screaming mutely at the drooping eyelids of the sky. author: Henrietta Bobric

Sandra Rose England

Sandra England lives in Central Wyoming where she enjoys hiking along river paths and mountain trails. She enjoys spending time with her family and participating in local art events. Her photo, “Magic Mountain”, is currently on display in the Windswept Art Show at the Werner Wildlife Museum in Casper, Wyoming. Sandra has had several poems published in local and literary magazines and has her book, ‘Silent Echo’, published by Golden Eagle.

Check Mate

He said, she said Do you think we don’t know? He said, she said Dark static radio We want to know

A Spiral of Silence? Where your voice Is but a squeak, And your Truth But madness?

Protect the King, move the Knight The Chess Masters at play Flip some cash, spark a fire Deaf ears to what you say

Have you learned to read For their memorable Affiches; To listen For their Speeches; To think For them?

Small beige lies, shallow truths Agendas assumed unknown We watch it all, we do not blink Resting in our silent homes Do you feed off The breast of Disdain? Is your spirit Red Blue Or Yours? Have you been Segregated into

What Humanity have we lost Through propaganda? He said, she said Clichés that aren’t our own He said, she said Catalyst with a monotone We want to know We are not inert, we are conscious beings

A Spiral of Silence? Where your voice Is but a squeak, And your Truth But madness? Have you learned to read For their memorable Affiches; To listen For their Speeches; To think For them? What Humanity have we lost Through propaganda? He said, she said Clichés that aren’t our own He said, she said Catalyst with a monotone We want to know We are not inert, we are conscious beings Our thumping hearts do know Our minds have discernment Our humanity will show

We’re tottering on the brink It’s nothing new or novel To sort the missing link Knowledge is empowerment Ignorance is bliss Wisdom is a four-leaf clover Hidden in the wet, cold mist He said, she said We want to know A sliver of the dullest beam Is all we yearn to guide us A kernel of truth And justice for all To break the lies that binds us In visible insomniacs sit quietly in check Pasty smiles cloaked to soothe Hidden perks, muted whispers Secret passages to rooms He said, she said

He said, she said We want to know Why would we believe that? No one I know said it Why would we think it’s true? When rational people dread it? Stretch the truth Reach for the stars Point a finger Go to Mars He said, she said Caution lights are flashing

Red Blue Or Yours?

Watered down stories, fables untold Shrieks of alarm breaking our souls Characters trashed, citizens downtrodden Pontius Pilate redeemed, heroes forgotten We want to know Chip and pluck, annihilate our rights A methodic strategic foray The truth is what our free will hears A sour bed time story

The Chess Master is strong Our species is stronger Corporate forced grins Government whore-mongers He said, she said We split the heavy curtain Warm breath steams the glass Clutch hands and stand united A Cappella at last

author: Sandra Rose

The Web

author: Sandra Rose England

O’ what a tangled web we weave When the public we do deceive It starts with a spinner A spider in fact Spinning a web From the lies in his pack It jumps from here It spins from there Spinning the web larger With never a care The goal is entrapment The message is clear What we heard with excitement Is muddled in fear It’s sticky and strong Patience is key To this ugly black spider We want to be free A Spiral of Silence? Where your voice Is but a squeak, And your Truth But madness?

Have you learned to read For their memorable Affiches; To listen For their Speeches; To think For them? What Humanity have we lost Through propaganda? Propaganda is lying I feel the web weaken… I won’t be trapped By the words I hear speaking The web is loose A thread floats away My thoughts are now clear The spider skitters away

The Good King

author: Sandra Rose England

“Did you hear that the Good King is dead?”

“Did you hear that He left his gold castle to a careless magician with a lamp for a vessel?” “That’s outrageous!” I boomed “He’s on a vacation! You can’t always believe the Radio Station.” “Did you hear that He has a young daughter? The careless magician married her to an Otter!” “The King’s on vacation He called me today! His daughter is fine! She’s been home all day!” “Did you hear that the Internet told me the King dined on doorbells!

The Internet showed me!” “That’s ridiculous!” I stifled a giggle. I just got a letter. He ate pudding that jiggles.” “Did you hear that His daughter can fly? When the Otter is gone she heads to the sky!” “Absurd!” I shout and jump up and down. The television perceives Our King as a clown!”

Did you hear that? That rapping sound? Our Good King is home but he’s wearing a frown. “Why would you believe such crazy wild tales thought up by people who make money from sales?” The Good King laughed at what had been told and laughed even harder about the vessel of gold. “When I leave I will tell you” “While I’m gone I will call” “I’ll post you a letter” Your news won’t come from a Media Mall” The King looked at his Stewards and stroked his long beard. He lit his black pipe And said, “Did you hear…” Have you learned to read For their memorable Affiches; To listen For their Speeches; To think For them? What Humanity have we lost Through propaganda?

Eszter Kállay

Eszter Kállay comes from Budapest, Hungary. She works at the Invisible School of Budapest, and is currently doing her Masters at the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna. She is interested in minority literature, the problematic of writing in different languages than one’s own, feminism, and collective artistic work. She has published poems, short stories, essays and critiques in several Hungarian journals.

Personal propagandart 60

Professor A. asked if I really wanted to make propaganda art. Which is not clear, detached, noble and seethrough like water streaming but muddy and deals with what is misleadingly called a grey area. (scReaming) It deals with red-brown, heavy, flowing material and it has no design, only dissent. Professor A. asked if I really wanted to make propagandaart. The sound of the words like several gunshots after I have left the streets to sit down inside and open a magazine. The rrrrrrrrrr rings in the head and it tells you to keep the door shut as you pierce your lips to each other, this produces sound, not voice.

Track to listen to while they fight their fights outside. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t worrrrrrrrrrrrry about that, honey, Something keeps ringing, like a phone, I rrrrrrrrrrrr each the coffee table, hi, I am attached to my magazines, I am afraid of rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrresponsibility I was depraved of it. RRRRRRResistance: taking steps and stands express and be cut offlet go of anorexia, do not accept it as your drive, something that keeps you going dissolving peforming. I always just kept to myself, did the work and stuck to a perrrrrrrrrrrr sonal level. RRRRRRRRR comes from the things they made you read when you were thiRteen. You run to RRRRR from the political, from solidarity. After all, where

“I am afraid of rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrresponsibility”

is the intimacy in that? You like RRRR, you foRget your homecage. R-ringing over my answer, I don’t remember what I said. I went home, listened to ambient music and did yoga.

author: Eszter Kállay

Acknowledgments

Our biggest thanks and regards to all authors who made this issue. Our special thanks to Katarzyna Strzelec and Marek Supertramp for the pictures that accompany this issue.