Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha: Pulitzer Prize is a recognition of our story

What distinguishes writing born of introspection from writing that is received as political documentation?

I don't like to describe my work as political documentation. I prefer to see it as a profoundly human record, a cry of pain and suffering, that bleeds and screams long before it reaches the ear or eye.

A poem born of introspection is a work of art, reflecting dreams, imaginations, or fears that are universally shared: love for family, fear of hurricanes, anxiety before childbirth, longing for a new tomorrow.

But the fear of dying beneath the rubble of one's own bedroom, or of bleeding to death in the street and having one's body consumed by stray dogs, these fears do not stem from contemplation, but from a terror imposed and magnified by others.

In one of your poems, you mock the weight of rubble compared to that of souls. How do you see the role of dark humour in literature?

Dark humour lets us grasp truths more profoundly than direct language often can. The world, with its political and legal frameworks, has not only failed to restore the rights of Palestinians but has also failed to shield them from the machinery of death for nearly eight decades.

Words can reclaim part of the soul's weight if they succeed in restoring the humanity of the victim. To reduce a person to a statistic, a fleeting headline swiftly eclipsed by the next urgent story, is nothing short of a moral failure, a crime.

Language must strive to reclaim the existential worth of the individual, something Western media all too often fails to do when the subject is Palestinian.

After relocating to the US, did your sense of self shift as a writer, a father, and a Palestinian? Do you fear becoming merely a distant narrator of a life you once lived?

It is no small thing to move from the theatre of genocide to the country that sustains it. I now feel an even greater obligation to speak to the world in a language it comprehends—not only English, but also its literary and cultural idioms. The task is heavier when engaging with the very media institutions you critique on a daily basis.

I am deeply tormented when I see Palestinian mothers and fathers carrying their children and what little they can salvage, fleeing from one death to another. I look at my own children and travel back in time. What if I had remained in Gaza? How would I feed my children? How would I protect them? Would we even still be alive?

You were arrested while trying to evacuate your family. How has that experience shaped your relationship with language, memory, and fear?

It has left a lasting impact which continues to this day, especially when I see newly released detainees, their bodies broken by starvation, fear, and disease. I still suffer from nightmares in which I see my own face among them. That experience transformed my relationship with language; I now pay much closer attention to words.

Why does the media say a Palestinian was "detained" from a school or a hospital, when in truth he was kidnapped? Why is an Israeli—even a soldier—referred to as a "hostage," while a Palestinian—even a civilian doctor—is a "detainee?" Every word carries political and human consequences.

You wrote: "A book that does not mention my language or my country... as if I were an illegitimate child on Mother Earth." How do you confront the erasure of Palestine from maps? What can writing do in the face of such erasure?

I confront this erasure by asserting my existence and telling my story. Sadly, this act often occurs while that very existence, be it people or places, is being physically erased. Regrettably, writing is sometimes expected to compensate for this erasure. It is praised in journals and awarded accolades, while its subjects are extinguished forever.

How do you view the global cultural scene's engagement with Palestinian voices? Do you sense a sincere, sustained commitment to your narrative, or does interest remain largely reactive in moments of crisis and explosion?

It is true that global intellectual engagement with Palestinian voices often emerges from a basic human impulse in times of war and aggression, those moments of explosion, as you described them. Yet I now believe this engagement is beginning to evolve, extending not only across time but also into the depths of the Palestinian narrative.

Ours is not a story that begins with assault and ends with a ceasefire. It is a narrative that calls for a fundamental solution. The weight of its marginalisation rests with an unjust global order, implicating not only politicians and policymakers but also academics and cultural figures.

Do you face implicit editorial pressures when publishing in the West? Are there certain expectations around how the Palestinian story should be told?

In my experience, the only word I am forbidden to use is "genocide." Beyond that, I have been free to articulate everything that goes through my mind and heart.

How did you receive the Pulitzer Prize? Did you see it as a literary honour or as symbolic recognition of your story?

Both, unquestionably. It is a literary honour for the work I published, not only during an immensely challenging year, but for the subjects I tackled, which are often reduced to mere political analysis. It is also a recognition of the literary form I brought to my essays, and a powerful acknowledgement of our Palestinian story, a voice so frequently excluded from literary spaces.

Do such prizes celebrate the power of your voice or the depth of your wound? How do you reconcile the paradox of being praised by institutions that belong to a world that turns a blind eye to Gaza's suffering?

Many of these institutions indeed exist in a world that not only turns a blind eye but also plays an active role in our suffering. Yet, the world is more complex than that. Some sincere writers recognise the injustice and speak out.

Even if their voices are weaker than those who cheer destruction, still, they exist, and it is vital that we let them know we see them. We hear their voices; voices that listen to ours and carry them, both in their hearts and on their lips.

When Western platforms celebrate your work, are you seen as an independent Palestinian voice or as a survivor fluent in the language of the other?

I don't believe that fluency in a language familiar to the West is the reason for celebration. Rather, it is a celebration of our shared humanity and of the literary quality that I bring to the work.