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

by Mosab Abu Toha

Gaza is a city where tourists gather to take photos next to destroyed buildings or graveyards. A country that exists only in my mind. Its flag has no room to fly freely, but there is space on the coffins of my countrymen.

I speak Arabic and English, but I don’t know in what language my fate is written. I’m not sure if that would change anything.

Al-Quds is Arabic for Jerusalem. I have never been to al-Quds. It’s around 60 miles from Gaza. People who live 5,000 miles away can move there, while I cannot even visit.

They once said Palestine will be free tomorrow. When is tomorrow? What is freedom? How long does it last?

I wish I could hear the birds sing again, no shooting and no buzzing drones.

For us, the fear of dying before living haunts us while we are still in our mothers’ wombs.

The river that separates us from you is just a mirage you created when you expelled us.

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.

I want to drown myself in the silence of absence, to fill my pockets with poems and throw myself in a lazy river.

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.