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The writer, who recently released a new novel, speaks with The New Yorker’s Doreen St. Félix about the meaning of home in an era when Haitian Americans are targeted for mass deport...
Taiye Selasi has a new story in The New Yorker, and it reads more like a letter than fiction, one woman writing to another who already understands what’s coming. “Dear Firstborn Im...
I have always understood home as something provisional, something that might exist more fully in memory than in the places I moved through. I was ten when I left St. Vincent and th...
When I thought of home, I thought of Calabar, of No. 32 Ene Ndem, with its uneven stairwell, chipped at the sides and desperately in need of a second or third coat of mortar. I t...
The author discusses her story “Hidden Life.”
Walking home from the market, I heard a voice I recognised — and discovered I'd only ever known half of Leïla Slimani
The author reads her story from the August 24 & 31, 2026, issue of the magazine.
“So where are your people from?” It’s usually the third or fourth question, after the perfunctory small talk. It’s never been the first question. By then, I’ve already said I’m f...
Valeria Luiselli is no stranger to incorporating tangible records of the world in her writing. In The Story of My Teeth, she exchanged audio recordings with a group of Grupo Jumex...
yemenat يمنات عدنان الدوسري كانت باريس، في ذلك الخريف، تبدو كأنها خرجت لتوّها من لوحة رسمها عاشق ولم يفرغ من وضع لمساته الأخيرة. كانت أوراق الكستناء تنحدر ببطء على الأرصفة المبتل...
Edna Bonhomme, author of Tending To Our Wounds: A Diasporic Memoir, recommends three must-read books about colonialism
yemenat Yemenat Adnan Al-Dosari | Iraqi Writer and Novelist I did not know, when I fell in love with her, that some women do not enter the heart as a love story. They enter it the...
There is an unmistakable feeling that accompanies a journey home. Before familiar faces appear, there is the scent of the air, the rhythm of conversations, the colours of the stree...
"Dust Child" by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai
He heard her crying out in the dark. He couldn’t be sure if it was in sadness or joy or both.
A tiny motor of pleasure had started to hum away inside her, but she was aware, too, of a flash of scorn. How easy it had been to arouse his admiration!
The words of the accursed letter were etched in your brain to the point where you could recite it by heart. Nevertheless, you read it multiple times a day regardless of how it fi...
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