A Note from the Editors: Issue 31

When writing anything in 2020, including a simple editor’s note, it’s difficult not to acknowledge the presence and power of the pandemic surrounding us. Here in Abu Dhabi, life feels close to normal. Normal with a footnote: in public spaces, you must wear a mask; sit or stand where the stickers tell you to; have up to two people in a taxi. But unlike in other places, people here in the UAE are adaptable when it comes to following the rules—we adhered to a strict curfew for several weeks before some of the world had even mandated mask wearing. We stopped visiting loved ones who live only a few minutes away, and we applied for moving permits if we wanted to shop at the grocery store. Maybe our adaptability as residents exists because the rules here keep us feeling safe. We accept the almost constant presence of cameras in this country for the same reason—they are an omnipresent, parental eye. 

Apocalypse was the last issue we released before the pandemic hit. We chose this theme because we could feel unrest brewing beneath the surface of our relatively calm lives. Perhaps it was because we would be graduating from university and entering the “real world” in 2020, or because of the cloud of chaos we joked about sensing on the horizon. We never could’ve predicted a pandemic, but we had some sense of the fragility of our realities. After Apocalypse, we published Utopia: our attempt to curl inwards and find safety in a broiling and changing atmosphere. We followed with Masks, Lo-fi, a curated issue responding to current events, and Labor. Finally, we have reached Childhood. 

This issue marks a turning point for Postscript. We have brought on a talented team of editors, visual artists, interns, a web designer, and a marketing director. We have defined Postscript as a brand, set goals for the upcoming year, and planted our feet firmly in the UAE. If the last two years were our infancy as a fledgeling magazine, we have finally entered our childhood. 

While we may think of childhood as a period of time in a person’s life, it is ever-present. Our child-self is carried with us, chatting to us every day about what we see and feel. In this issue, you’ll discover unexpected, nuanced, and often unsettling depictions of childhood. From film criticism about the children who remain invisible in our cities and a poem about hating the taste of olives to a soundscape depicting the premature death of childhood, we hope this issue adds another layer to your notions of what childhood can mean. 

Love always, 
Your Editors-in-Chief
Vamika and Zoe

Cover artwork by Simone Hadebe