A Palestinian poet on the role of art in the Israel-Hamas war

Since the horrific attack by Hamas that killed approximately 1,200 Israelis and saw 253 others taken hostage, Israel has launched a war in Gaza that has killed more than 33,000 Palestinians.

On Commotion, we've had several conversations about how the war in Gaza is reverberating in the arts world. It's creating divisions, it's fueling protest and it's also raising some serious questions about the role of artists in the world right now.

Today on the show, host Elamin Abdelmahmoud asks: how do artists, the most sensitive and tender among us, continue to create in the face of so much horror?

To try to answer this question, Elamin talks to Mosab Abu Toha. He's a Palestinian poet and essayist whose debut collection of poetry is called Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear.

In 2019, he was a visiting poet and librarian-in-residence at Harvard University. He returned to Gaza just days before October 7. It took him more than two months to escape to Egypt with his wife and three young children. Mosab has been sharing his poetry on social media almost daily, which in and of itself feels like an radical act — making art amidst so much destruction.

The following is an excerpt from today's podcast which has been edited for length and clarity. For the full discussion, listen and follow the Commotion with Elamin Abdelmahmoud podcast, on your favourite podcast player.

LISTEN | Today's episode on YouTube:

Elamin: You post a few lines of poetry almost every day. So that's where I'm hoping we might begin. I'm wondering if you could read one of the poems that is getting so much traction right now. Would you read a little bit of "What is Home?"

Mosab:

What is home: 

it is the shade of trees on my way to school

    before they were uprooted.

It is my grandparents' black-and-white wedding 

    photo before the walls crumbled. 

It is my uncle's prayer rug, where dozens of ants

   slept on wintry nights, before it was looted and 

   put in a museum. 

It is the oven my mother used to bake bread and 

   roast chicken before a bomb reduced our house 

   to ashes. 

It is the café where I watched football matches

   and played—

My child stops me: Can a four-letter word hold

   all of these?

Elamin: So much of poetry, it seems, is about witnessing and being on the record as having witnessed something. It's about saying, "I live this life and this is a thing that I saw, and this is the thing that I felt." 

A few days ago you wrote, "I don't care how many people read my poetry. I only care about the many stories, screams and tears my eyes and ears manage to keep alive and put into words so others never forget." Is there any comfort at all to be found in the knowledge that your words are having that effect, that your poetry is in fact lasting?

Mosab: I draw comfort at least when I know that I'm writing about these things. At least if I'm just keeping this record for my own, I'd feel some comfort that nothing is being forgotten — what I hear, what I feel, what I see, my father's voice, my mother's voice when they tell me that they are looking for some plants here and there to make some food. But at the same time, this poetry is not only about me and my family, but it's also about everyone who did not find anyone to write about or who died without being noticed. Because people in Gaza and the West Bank and everywhere turn into numbers. When you see the news, they would say 15 people were killed in a school, but no one tells us who these 15 people are.

Every single person is not a number; he is a story. And I know that we hear this a lot … but also people are not only stories. These people are dreams and hopes and feelings. I need to feel how these people were feeling when they were killed, or before they were killed. I need to imagine their lives before it was taken away from them. I need to imagine the bedroom where the children were sleeping before they were buried under the ceiling…. I need to write about everything that existed before disappearing under the rubble.

Elamin: Mosab, we started this whole conversation by talking about the fact that it's Eid this week, that a part of what you say during Eid … is the idea that, "Hey, I hope every year brings you wellness. I hope every year brings you health and hope." Hope is tough, because also this is a time where you would gather with family…. The gathering is not going to be the same. Your family is still in Gaza. Do you allow yourself in these moments to hope, or is that too difficult right now?

Mosab: I think hope is something that we need to create. If it's not real, we have to create it in order for us to continue living. I promise you that people in Gaza will be celebrating Eid…. You will see people shaking hands and hugging their neighbors and their friends, and exchanging visits. This is something that you will see in Eid, inshallah.

People will go out, but it will be a tough Eid because there are lots and lots of houses that are not there anymore. So again, hope is something that we need to raise. We need to nurture. We need to take care of. It's a very sensitive creature. Sometimes it vanishes. Sometimes it comes back to us, sitting on the window. Sometimes it's there in the sky, giving us sunlight. Sometimes it's a cloud, giving shade on a sunny day. So it's something that we don't control, just like other people do not control hope. But, it's something that we need to find every day.

You can listen to the full discussion from today's show on CBC Listen or on our podcast, Commotion with Elamin Abdelmahmoud, available wherever you get your podcasts.

Interview with Mosab Abu Toha produced by Jess Low