Because Poetry is Also Resistance

There are many ways to describe what is happening in Palestine. Today, the poetry of Gazans is all I have.

Mosab Abu Toha

All of the following were posted to Instagram since October 7, 2023. Where known, the original composition/publication date is noted.

With the exception of “Could You Carry Them?” all were written in English by native Arabic speakers under siege.

Everyday Meals During Wars 
by Mosab Abu-Toha, 2014

In previous wars our neighbors would share meals with us in
  our basement. My brother would start a fire in the old brazier, and
  I would prepare tea and put a kettle on the burning coals.

There were truces every couple of days. My father could go out
  and check on the hens and ducks in their coops. My mother
  would climb the ladder to the roof to put water in the bowls for the
  sparrows and pigeons.

Men would be taken to jails or concentration camps. They could
  see those who were fighting and killing them and their families.

Nowadays, we don't see those who take everything beautiful
  away from us. We don't even see our shadows during the day.
  The F-16s swallow the light from the sun, casting the shadows
  of their fat bellies on us, dead or alive.

Bombs punch the houses, knock them down, smash the
  fridges and the dishes. A house turns into a stew of
  concrete and blood.

We no longer share meals with the neighbors.

November 1, 2023, Khan Younis
by Heba Al-Agha

1:54p.m. Death lies next to us every
night, but stays alert, waiting for the
signal. We wake up to a miracle:
we've thwarted death as well as sleep.
Time overtakes us--from every side
and from above.  Daytime takes it all
in, agitated and distressed. We no
longer fear death. We have come to
fear life. 


Stray Deaths
by Mohammed Moussa

In Gaza
if you find a stray death
belonging to no one
then it's yours.

Request Letter
by Mosab Abu Toha,"Autumn 2023, a few months or even weeks before October 7"

He penned a quick letter on paper, (a letter as plain in regard to form
as possible, with no white spaces) and threw it in the graveyard at
night:

Angel of death,
When you collect the souls of those killed in an airstrike, do you mind
leaving a sign for us, so we know who is who?  Because last time a mother
couldn't recognize her daughter's face, which ear or arm or finger
on the bloody streets was hers.  And a father wouldn't recognize which was his
child if it wasn't for the size of shoes (European 28 still on the sole)
that he bought her for the new school year.

On the back of the paper, he penned the same letter in Arabic,
because who could know what language the Angel of death was fluent
at, the most spoken language in the world, or the language of God.

Could You Carry Them? 
by Jenna Matari

If you were alone in the rubble-filled streets
and your brother’s body
laid lifeless on the ground
could you carry him?

If you were sleeping
and your tent was set ablaze
and your mother’s body was discovered 
once the flames had gone away
could you carry her?

Could you carry your father
after his body was sprayed with bullets
or your child
who became so frail
from starvation
so small they should be weightless
but the weight of their loss
is heavier than a thousand tons
could you carry them?

Any of them?
All of them? 
All of them deserve the dignity of 
a grave
that should be their final resting place?

But there is no such thing as rest
in Palestine.  Not even 
for the dead. 

If everyone you love has died
before you and you were the only one left
could you carry them? 

To Write Poetry About a Genocide
by Mohammed Moussa

To write poetry about a genocide,
one must engage in a dialogue with
his cold body twice daily, read the 
tongue of flaming cities at noon
when death is loud, peel off the
layers of amputated meanings before
sunset when the distant angels are
yet to arrive, and pick out the unseen
sorrow in the quietude of mothers 
dwelling in graveyards on Thursday 
evenings. One must step on his
poem twice a day and soak his 
poems in the blood that stains the
hospital tiles and tread over his
grave daily to write poetry about a 
genocide.  

We Deserve A Better Death
by Mosab Abu-Toha

We deserve a better death.
Our bodies are disfigured and twisted,
embroidered with bullets and shrapnel.
Our names are pronounced incorrectly
on the radio and TV.
Our faces, plastered onto the walls of our buildings,
fade and grow pale.
The inscriptions on our gravestones disappear,
covered in the feces of birds and reptiles.
No one waters the trees that give shade 
to our graves. 
The blazing sun has overwhelmed
our rotting bodies.

Please Forget About Us
Mohammed Moussa, August 2024

Please forget about us,
Forget our names, our freedom to exist,
The bloodstains on your screens
The screams under your pillows
The echo of our hunger
Our bodies buried in rubble,
The blood that pools in our streets, its scent
lingering,
Forget whether we resemble each other or not.
Whether our children are of similar age or not. 
Whether we sleep or you cannot.
Whether we dream or you do not.
Simply forget us.
Whether it is better to perish in the summer of
early sorrows or the winter of delayed defeats,
whether we are interred in a communal grave
or abandoned for stray dogs to consume, simply
forget us, for we too have lost memory of your existence.