Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear: Poems from Gaza

by Mosab Abu Toha

A book that doesn’t mention my language or my country, and has maps of every place except for my birthplace, as if I were an illegitimate child on Mother Earth.

The key has rusted but still exists somewhere, longing for the old wooden door.

In 2014, about 2,139 people were killed, 579 of them were children, around 11,100 were wounded, around 13,000 buildings were destroyed. I lost 3 friends. But it’s not about numbers. Even years, they are not numbers.

In Gaza, you can find a man planting a rose in the hollow space of an unexploded tank shell, using it as a vase.

Like a woman hanging her laundry on the clothesline, I hang my words on the lines of my page.

The scent of coffee still hangs in the air. But where is the kitchen?

The seashells are filled with the sound of lapping waves, our feet running on the sand,and the stories we heard from our grandfather. There is no space for the noise of a drone.

The houses were not Hamas. The kids were not Hamas. Their clothes and toys were not Hamas. The neighborhood was not Hamas. The air was not Hamas. Our ears were not Hamas. Our eyes were not Hamas. The one who ordered the killing, the one who pressed the button thought only of Hamas.

People say silence is a sign of consent. What if I’m not allowed to speak, my tongue severed, my mouth sewn shut?

Threads of sun hang in the air. Butterflies flit across them like the fingers of a young guitarist plucking the strings.