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This, too, is generational wealth.

i suffer the throes of labor, yet miscarry the redemption.

  • Enbah Nilah
  • Fall 2022
Art by Osheen Siva
  • Poem
  • Intervention

My father carves with a pen
with the patience
inherited from his father, 
sculpting scissors-over-comb
in a sweltering barber shop.

He backstitches turns of phrase
with the precision
inherited from his mother 
paddling the sewing machine,

and the persistence
inherited from his brother
paddling a bicycle 
to reach ஆள் அரவமற்ற குறிச்சி1
within அரவக்குறிச்சி2,
carrying letters to sun-crumpled,
half-remembered people.

This, too, is generational wealth. 

when i write letters
to people i half-remember,
they crumple with the absence
of conviction.
i suffer the throes of labor,
yet miscarry the redemption.

My father dabbles in poetry,
i dabble in pain.

His footsteps sprout
into முருங்கை தோப்பு3
of childhood in கரூர்4.
Even in grief, his eyes hardly well up,
mirroring the well from which 
he scooped water
by quarter-portions of a bucket,
because water doesn’t
cascade effortlessly in his world.

His tongue craves 
மொச்சை கத்திரிக்காய் குழம்பு5
made in மண் சட்டி6,
his mother blowing into the fire,
smoke billowing, as he dances
 		a
 		   r
 	   	     o
                    u
               	 n
             d 
           
                    her.   

My father now sways
to the same rhythm in the kitchen,
the scents and spices 
forbidden but never forgotten,
like the சேவல் சண்டை7 of his youth.

He teaches me to savor,
i only (s)wallow.

He drifts between both worlds, 
the old dance of balance.
Continents and countries 
are, to him, nothing
but dust storms 
and rivers 
and hide-and-seek.
They are what you arrive at
and inevitably leave.

This, too, is generational wealth, he says.

I gift you two worlds:
this dance, this arrival to yourself
regardless of the thousand
inevitable little leavings
you are forced to live through.

Remember, 
home is the ocean within,
endless is the swimming.

Home is the ocean... 
endless—
He bids me to swim 
i sink anyway.


1Aal aravamattre kurichi – a desolate village
2Aravakkurichi – a village in Karur, Tamil Nadu
3Murunggai thoppu – Moringa orchard
4Karur – a city in Tamil Nadu, India
5Mocchai katthirikai kuzhambu – a broth made with black eyed peas and eggplant
6Mann chatti – clay cooking pot
7Sevval sandai – cock-fighting
  • displacement family Grief inheritance Loss Tamil Nadu

Enbah Nilah

Enbah Nilah is an educator and poet from Malaysia. Her interest lies in the “almost(s)” and “not-quite(s)”—the grey-in-between regions of un-belonging. Presently, she is collaborating on a poetry project called “the border is not a line / it is a lie / we swallowed,” supported by Innovation for Change. Her poems can be found in Persephone’s Daughters (NZ), the Dirty Thirty Anthology (AUS), and When I Say Spoken, You Say Word (MY).

‹Also in this Issue›
  • Playlist
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We asked each contributor to Adi’s eleventh issue to share a song that resonated with their piece. From Anna Badkhen’s

  • Intervention
  • Poem
Excerpt from Donkey Days

Athena Farrokhzad

But will there really be a revolution after the night of revolution // and will it belong to our daughters if it comes

  • Violence
  • Analysis
The Lawman and the Outlaw

Hawa Allan

Which dueling creation myth will be victorious?

  • Violence
  • Interview
Jori Lewis: Slaves for Peanuts

Meara Sharma , Jori Lewis

How a crop fueled colonial ambitions and new forms of bondage.

  • Intervention
  • Essay
The One Who Must Walk On Foot

Habibe Jafarian

Reflections from Iran on the uselessness of pity.

  • Violence
  • Essay
Because of the Droughts

Annia Ciezadlo

The idea that climate change triggered the Syrian uprising is a persistent and dangerous myth. What really happened?

  • Protest
  • Essay
The Trail of The Camphor

Chanelle Adams

What a resilient medicinal tree reveals about the entanglements of botany and empire.

  • Intervention
  • Poem
This, too, is generational wealth.

Enbah Nilah

i suffer the throes of labor, yet miscarry the redemption.

  • Intervention
  • Vignette
Motel 6

Vi Khi Nao

I call this debt-free space: the autoimmune disorder of the psyche.

  • Violence
  • Essay
In Memory Of Memory

Anna Badkhen

Who is to judge, as we pick our way through history, move across the borders of memory, what is true and what is false?

  • Violence
  • Opinion
We Were Not Always Indigenous

Yásnaya Elena Aguilar Gil

The word Indigenous has been affixed so firmly to our faces that it becomes a mask that tries to pass itself off as skin.

  • Intervention
  • Fiction
Peace Criminal

Craig Kenworthy

Box would answer any question Acen asked it. Unless it involved what he most wanted to know: what day, month, season, or year it was.

  • Protest

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