Writing Poetry in the Time of Genocide
Writing and sharing poetry in the time of genocide brings to mind the act of writing a poem as one approaches their end, similar to writing at a funeral or walking barefoot through a chaotic market filled with death.
As a poet from Jabalia camp in northern Gaza, I have always felt this way. The relentless attacks have left it devoid of life and any distinguishing features.
My fellow poets in the Gaza Poets Society share this same sentiment. We often write our poems as if they were our last words.
And the rush to write and share poems during this war, because we're scared we'll die before we can show who we are, our simple dreams, and how much our loved ones mean to us.
Sharing poetry from each poet in the Gaza Poets Society is a delicate moment, as we worry we may not hear from them again.
After almost two years of relentless attacks on our city, it feels like the poems we create could be our final messages. Some write on scraps of paper or in notebooks while being displaced, moving from one place to another, often forgetting what we wrote in our homes before fleeing. Our poetry can be lost, just like us, at any moment in Gaza.
I find writing helps when I'm overwhelmed by this half-life, this genocide; it's like the words are stuck in my throat, and I just have to get them out.
Warplanes are roaring, bringing back those haunting words, they'll drop a bomb, warplanes above us, hide, or the voices welcoming us home at dusk, after losing everything. Where've you been, where'd you go, and then you find a complete silence that's scarier than the explosions.
In times of genocide, poetry becomes a vital way to express grief, especially when the heart is burdened pain of loss and the confusion of survival, or when looking into the empty eyes of loved ones, searching for words that become poetry.
My journey of writing and sharing poetry during the genocide in Gaza has been deeply impactful, filled with loss and sorrow, as I navigate feelings of dislocation. While I write, I face the darkness surrounding my thoughts and also receive poems from fellow poets in our community, which I edit and translate.
This shared sorrow transcends words, revealing a profound pain that language cannot fully express. Our grief feels boundless, requiring a vast expanse to contain it, as myriad streams of sadness course through us, hindering the articulation of our feelings.
Poetry becomes a space where we attempt to convey the struggles we face, particularly for ourselves and the poets in our community.
After all we went through, it felt like we'd lost our voices, so poetry became our way to speak. Sometimes, I'm so mad at language and myself, but I keep writing, and so do the other poets around here. They write even though they're displaced, hungry, grieving, scared, and facing death, knowing this might be it, but if we die, our poetry lives on.
Mohammed Moussa, poet, journalist, and founder of the Gaza Poets Society.