“Gaza—stadium of souls” and Other Poems

“I was angry for a while, and confused about what to do, and as soon as I made up my mind, I felt relieved,” Alice Oswald tells Rachael Allen in our Art of Poetry interview in the new Winter issue. Oswald had decided to join more than five hundred protesters in London’s Parliament Square in August in support of Palestine Action, which the British government had designated a terrorist group. British police arrested Oswald, as he had hoped and planned, even though his previous interactions with the law were “at times unlawful.”[ing] speed limit.” At the time, Oswald was mentoring young Palestinian poets through the Hands Up Project, a charity founded by Nick Bilbrough. Being involved in the lives of these young poets, Oswald said, made it impossible not to act. He works with five other people—two of whom work with students in Arabic and three of whom help them write in English—to tutor thirteen teenage students. “Some students have been evacuated to Cairo, some to the West Bank; others survive in tents or half-destroyed buildings in Gaza,” he told us via email. “There are times when hunger, loss, displacement or lack of internet means we cannot meet. “On these occasions, the mentors occasionally exchange poetry via WhatsApp or voice messages.” However, they try to get together as a group at least once a month, and share their poetry in a Google Doc so they can read each other’s work. Rebecca Ruth Gould, a professor at SOAS University of London, invited the Hands Up Project to collaborate on a book entitled From the Dust We Rise: New Poetry from Palestinewhich collects the works of these Palestinian poets. That Overview published some of their poems here. These poems, Oswald said, are “a stunning record not only of the darkness through which we have passed, but also of human dignity, courage, patience, and recovery.”

Gaza—the stadium of the soul

by Bassim Helmi Hijazi (twenty years)

In a land full of blood,
there stretched fields without green grass
the land was reduced to ashes of destroyed houses.
The outline is not drawn with white chalk
but in mother’s tears.
Two goalposts, a kid who lost his arm
and a father searching for his son’s scent
under a rock.

And the crossbar between them
is the silence of the world,
never give up like iron,
unshaken by the screams.
The ball is not leather, not cloth.
This is the heart of Gaza
kicked by pain from one side,
hindered by the resistance of others.

The referee’s whistle never sounded,
because the bombing deafened everyone’s ears.
Extra time went on endlessly;
every minute is a game,
every night the other half.
Every goal we score
canceled due to absence.

But we still played. We ran—even though we were tired.
We sing—even while crying. We trembled
the ground when a striker shakes the goal.
In the stands of ruins, crowds of barefoot children,
and grieving mothers, waving flags of torn cloth,
they sing for life, they sing
for the dawn that must come,
the dawn that blows the final whistle,
ceasefire whistle.

When I leave

by Saleh Al Khalidi (seventeen years old)

Don’t put flowers in front of the door
I’ve passed it a thousand times,
and no one ever saw me

Don’t look for me in silence,
I’m the one who’s silent
you never heard of it.

As my shadow falls from the wall,
you will realize
the wall protects me.

But don’t worry
blessings are invisible
until they were taken away.

The color is red
Sclas comes for all men’s problems.

I don’t like red
But it lives on my knees
Throbbing with every pain
Reminds me
I came out from under the bomb
But not completely

I am now in Egypt
The hospital bed beneath me
My father’s voice
Stay there
In Gaza
Silencing his name between my ribs
So I won’t cry out loud

I follow the news every night
I counted the raids
like I’m counting my breaths
I say:
I wish he wasn’t there
I wish he were here

Even when I’m bleeding
I went through the red phase
This is not life
But the waiting room
with cold walls
The screen doesn’t show anything
except for the face of a martyr

I believe it is my duty
To heal
To stand again
Not just for myself
But for my father
For debris
Waiting for us to rebuild
With an injured hand

I like silence
Because inside me
There was screaming
Too big for words

I don’t like red
But it lives on my knees
Throbbing with every pain
Reminds me
I came out from under the bomb
But not completely.

Message
by Hala Madukh (seventeen years old)

How do I tell the world
Am I drowning on dry land?
In the sand, in a small bottle
closed, shiny, and inside me
screaming, crying, pain.
My voice couldn’t be heard
and transparent, here in Gaza.
The world is on the other side
happily, freely and safely.
I tried to break the bottle
only ash and rocky nights,
scary sound and the color is red.
The voice of death calls.
Inside is hell in a bottle,
but on the outside it looks magical.

What’s your name?
by Islam Kamal al Ban’na (sixteen years old)

They ask me what’s your name?
I said: the most beautiful name

They asked my age
I said: the moment of my existence

They asked me about my job
I said: I sow goodness and kindness without a signature

They asked me about my perfume
I said: well said

They asked my height
I said: my self-esteem with which I rise to the top
heaven’s reproach

They asked about my weight
I say: in trouble a mountain and in joy a feather

They asked for my address
I said: a traveler without an address

They ask me about the world
I said: it taught me poetry.

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