Under Israeli bombs, poets cry out from the bleeding heart of Gaza

Meanwhile, this most recent war has been described as more brutal than ever. The occupation's response has grown more severe, bombarding and terrorising Palestinians, uprooting them from the soil beneath their toes on one hand and forcing them to endure staggering losses on the other.

Here, the young Gazan poet, Bisan Al Nateel, encapsulates the crushed spirit of displacement, and indeed, the entirety of war, with its unimaginable horrors.

She writes, "The suitcase cannot possibly hold it all. How can I fold the walls of my home? I yearn to guide us to safety. But which suitcase could possibly contain all our books, photos, and cherished memories?"

Blood-stained memories

The Palestinian existence is buried beneath the unforgiving weight of war – a realm where iron swords never rest.

Blood-stained memories are on constant replay — scenes of terror and profound on repeat.

Poet Nasser Rabah writes of the anniversary of war, designating it as a time to deliver gifts to his beloved. His words carry echoes of military garrisons and the corrosion of life amidst myriad tragic finales that punctuate Palestinian existence.

In Rabah's words, which transcend imagery, 'absence' is like the shell that destroys any path that love might tread. Dreams are depicted as fragile, unable to stand on their own as they inch closer to the edge.

His poetry draws an intricate connection between war, its calamities and inevitable endings, and the burdensome ties of love, linking them all back to Palestinian memory and Gaza.

Rabah writes: "The gifts I never sent to you on the anniversary of the war; a whispered verse for myself as I close my book, it withers as if choking on unspoken words.

These are the bridges between my silence and my stories of everything, amid the barracks, by the towering wall of my life, the ancient adventures of my former neighbours before they scattered like echoes fading into absence.

My delicate dreams, leaning on the crutch of youth, meander toward an apathetic sea.

The final elixir of hope in the cabinet, endless beads on my unending rosary, and I whisper: Gaza… Gaza."

Wide open

Another poet residing in Gaza, living through the same ordeals as every other soul in this besieged territory, shares in the overwhelming experiences of anxiety, fear, and heartbreak:

"When the night falls during times of war, it descends like a fog of grief on the first day of mourning.

The sheer weight of nighttime is unbearable, insurmountable,

time inching slowly forward in tandem with the endless Israeli bombardment of safe homes

bombs that shatter houses and wrench the hearts of those within

not to mention drones that fill the sky like wide-open mouths

poised to swallow you whole at any given moment."

This evocative image of wartime after dark serves as both a sacred sanctuary for prayer and a canvas for new possibilities, attempting to transform the prevailing pitch-black darkness into something entirely different, all while enduring a constant electricity blackout.

Palestinian poet Hamed Ashour vividly paints this in the form of a prayer that is on the tongue of every Gazan. In his verses, a childlike plea reaches out to the divine to halt the lumbering military apparatus that looms over Palestine:

"Cry out, dear God,

Lift this heavy night from our chests,

Take it, O Divine One,

Wash it of its profound darkness,

Free it from the roaring planes, missiles,

And explosive bombs.

Give it back to us in the morning,

As pristine as milk,

For our children to savour."

Survival and despair 

Poetic imagery unveils yet another layer of Palestinian life during wartime, where the separation between survival and the chasm of despair is nothing more than a thin, breakable line.

Coincidences, superficial as they may appear, are anything but. In the Palestinian experience, nothing unfolds by chance. It's all part of a long journey, much of it destined to unfurl toward inevitable mortality – an all-too-familiar companion in Gaza.

The looming spectre of death through an airstrike is inescapable. Palestinian lives resemble a tightrope walk over the void.

Ashour encapsulates this feeling that life is both short and sporadic, not just in terms of years, but in terms of those fleeting moments of joy that appear like uninvited guests in the lives of Gazans.

Perhaps breaking news, with its perpetual resurgence and constant, unrelenting pace, carries the most weight in the following lines:

"Time between each airstrike,

So fleeting, like our lives,

Insufficient to sweep away the dust of the previous assault,

Or even prepare for the next.

Time we set aside for breaking news,

As we hold our breath,

And raise the volume of the radio.

Time, too brief for the announcer to list the martyrs and their names,

Too short to salute the flag.

Time we all recognise,

With the taste and scent of gunpowder,

Time between each air strike,

No longer exists."

Gloomy reality

As the face of Gaza morphs, its people remain stuck in an unending war.

Over the past 15 years, they've weathered nearly 10 wars. This has changed the way that Palestinian youth look at the world. A growing sense of desolation has given rise to alarming suicide rates and mass migrations, both born out of torment.

Back in the world of poetry, gloom runs amok. Shadowy imagery paints a vivid picture of grief. Here, chilling eventualities transform individuals into phantoms, emerging from the vast valleys of death.

These sombre images are brought alive by Gaza's poetess, Rawan Hussein, in the following verses:

"Time sidesteps the present's fray,

Places shut their eyes in dusk's display,

Innocent words in pupils' glow,

Ceilings fall like rocks in rivers' flow.

Within the ruins, the image holds its breath,

The last tableau, the face of ultimate death,

Etched on our souls, in eerie grace,

A painting of terror, a shadowed embrace.

Tonight, solitude's path we tread,

We weave time's threads upon our head,

Devour the fear the young mouths spew,

Yet who devours our hearts so blue?"

Sarcasm to cope with pain

For Palestinians, pain seems like a daily staple. Agony is a natural culmination of their suffering.

But sarcasm has also become a Palestinian tradition, to the extent that they might name a night of shelling or escalation a "gathering," perhaps a trivial gathering, like a circus, or a meeting place where all of life's absurdities cross paths.

Palestinian poet Yahya Ashour sees sarcasm as a way to ridicule war, or oneself, or even mundane occurrences. He redefines loss and shows how an ordinary scene, which many might overlook, can hold within it a thousand truths:

"As the spectacle begins with a rocket's fiery flight,

My mother hastens to my room in the dead of night:

"Open your window just a sliver, my dear,"

But she doesn't know, and I've never made it clear,

My window, the sole survivor in our dwelling so tight,

Untouched, unbroken, through each dark plight.

Yet this time, my mother didn't come near,

And I left my window, sealed, without a fear."

Total isolation

In another verse, Yahya invokes the economic, social, and political siege on Gaza, highlighting the complete isolation that often befalls its people and its streets.

However, a glimpse of modernity connects it to the world. Technology emerges as a wrench to break the manacles of this desolate land, even amidst recurring conflicts.

The poet, in his own voice, ultimately provides a solution for Gaza's predicament:

"May the world unbind our online ties,

Or else, release our besieged cries.

I yearn for the world's relief from our strife,

Far more than our respite from life's endless fife."

Neutrality

Throughout history, the aeroplane appears like a dream – a source of enchantment and boundless possibilities. Yet, in the life of a Palestinian, particularly in the besieged heart of Gaza, it's unsettling.

It ceases to symbolise freedom. Instead, it serves as a harbinger of death, leaving scars in the form of shattered homes, the wails of children, and the heavy toll of immeasurable loss.

Indeed, the plane is far from hopeful, or even neutral; it's a messenger of doom.

Poet Mona AlMsaddar, in her introspective verses, questions whether the human mind can ever untangle itself from the indelible image that haunts Gaza's collective psyche. She meticulously dissects ideas and then carefully reassembles them, constructing a new reality.

This alternative existence, set apart from the war-ravaged scenery of Gaza, offers a life free from the tumult of conflict, the rubble of destruction, and the deeply felt marks of tragedy:

"What separates life from survival, except the canopy above?

Is it the shelter for your soul or a new sky?

Do foreign shores harbour distinct horizons?

Do the keys to existence alter their form?

Or does the night merely become clearer and more vibrant?

Shall we redefine the aeroplane as a transparent mode of travel?

Or shall we etch it into our souls, forever visiting the heavens?

Only to realize in time, it carries souls much like ours,

Yet with far fewer war-torn memories!"