Scan barcode
A review by raindropsinreverie
Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear: Poems from Gaza by Mosab Abu Toha
How do you rate or review a book like this? All I can do is share some of my highlights and implore you to read this emotionally devastating poetry collection:
"Don’t ever be surprised
to see a rose shoulder up
among the ruins of the house:
This is how we survived."
"People die.
Others are born.
For us,
the fear of dying before living
haunts us while we are still
in our mothers’ wombs."
"The scent of coffee still hangs in the air. But where is the kitchen?"
"Through it all, the strawberries have never stopped growing."
"And when we die,
our bones will continue to grow,
to reach and intertwine with the roots of the olive
and orange trees, to bathe in the sweet Yaffa sea.
One day, we will be born again when you’re not there.
Because this land knows us. She is our mother.
When we die, we’re just resting in her womb
until the darkness is cleared."
"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 photos, 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."
"I am neither in nor out.
I am in between.
I am not part of anything.
I am a shadow of something.
At best,
I am a thing that
does not really
exist.
I am weightless,
a speck of time
in Gaza.
But I will remain
where I am."
"No, I just think of poetry as an idea, not as rigid form that I need to follow. The word for poetry in Arabic, sha’ir, doesn’t refer to a particular form, it only has to do with feeling. So you have to be an expert in showing your feelings on paper or reciting your poetry to people so that they can feel what you’re feeling. It can be an image but it does have to leave an impact on the reader. And if you can make them cry or smile, then you are a poet; if you can make them shiver, then you are a poet."
"Yes, of course. Gazans have to show the world that they cannot be defeated. When a building housing a theater was destroyed in an attack in 2018, for example, many musicians came to play their music on the ruins of that building. When the Italian tower complex was hit by the Israelis in 2014, a young artist painted many different faces on the destroyed walls—gloomy faces, hopeful faces—looking toward the sky. It’s very difficult that we have to do these things, but we cannot tell the world that we are giving up."
"But being Palestinian, especially from Gaza, can also feel uneasy. When I needed to inquire as to whether I could return to Gaza through Egypt or Jordan, there was no embassy I could go to in the U.S. No matter where I am—in Gaza, in Palestine, if I could even get there, or in the United States—I remain stateless."
Free Palestine.
"Don’t ever be surprised
to see a rose shoulder up
among the ruins of the house:
This is how we survived."
"People die.
Others are born.
For us,
the fear of dying before living
haunts us while we are still
in our mothers’ wombs."
"The scent of coffee still hangs in the air. But where is the kitchen?"
"Through it all, the strawberries have never stopped growing."
"And when we die,
our bones will continue to grow,
to reach and intertwine with the roots of the olive
and orange trees, to bathe in the sweet Yaffa sea.
One day, we will be born again when you’re not there.
Because this land knows us. She is our mother.
When we die, we’re just resting in her womb
until the darkness is cleared."
"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 photos, 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."
"I am neither in nor out.
I am in between.
I am not part of anything.
I am a shadow of something.
At best,
I am a thing that
does not really
exist.
I am weightless,
a speck of time
in Gaza.
But I will remain
where I am."
"No, I just think of poetry as an idea, not as rigid form that I need to follow. The word for poetry in Arabic, sha’ir, doesn’t refer to a particular form, it only has to do with feeling. So you have to be an expert in showing your feelings on paper or reciting your poetry to people so that they can feel what you’re feeling. It can be an image but it does have to leave an impact on the reader. And if you can make them cry or smile, then you are a poet; if you can make them shiver, then you are a poet."
"Yes, of course. Gazans have to show the world that they cannot be defeated. When a building housing a theater was destroyed in an attack in 2018, for example, many musicians came to play their music on the ruins of that building. When the Italian tower complex was hit by the Israelis in 2014, a young artist painted many different faces on the destroyed walls—gloomy faces, hopeful faces—looking toward the sky. It’s very difficult that we have to do these things, but we cannot tell the world that we are giving up."
"But being Palestinian, especially from Gaza, can also feel uneasy. When I needed to inquire as to whether I could return to Gaza through Egypt or Jordan, there was no embassy I could go to in the U.S. No matter where I am—in Gaza, in Palestine, if I could even get there, or in the United States—I remain stateless."
Free Palestine.