
FOREST OF NOISE, By Mosab Abu Toha, Reviewed by Razia Parveen
This poignant and beautifully crafted book of poetry captures the heart-wrenching experiences of Palestinian children amid the unrelenting chaos of constant bombardment. It stands as a powerful testament to history, embodying an act of resistance through its evocative verses. The narrative weaves a tapestry of sorrow and resilience, vividly illustrating the harsh realities these children face day by day.
The opening lines, titled “Younger than War,” do not hold back, bravely confronting the reader with the grim and tragic circumstances that have become their everyday life.
Tanks roll through the dust,
Through eggplant fields.
…
Our kids hide in the basement,
Backs against concrete pillars,
Heads between knees,
Parents silents.
Loaves
Of stale bread.
At the time,
I was seven:
Decades younger than war,
A few years older than the bombs.
The poem unfolds in a series of couplets, yet it is the haunting subject matter that truly commands attention, drawing the reader in and compelling them to read on. It vividly portrays the nightmarish conditions faced by civilians living under the relentless threat of bombardment.
Each couplet unfolds a poignant narrative, shedding light on the struggles, fears, and resilience of those caught in the chaos of war. Through its evocative language, the act of writing this poem transforms into a powerful statement of resistance, giving voice to the voiceless and illuminating the human spirit amidst devastation.
The second poem is called OBIT and is a nod to the dead :
To the shadow I had left alone before I
Crossed the border, my shadow that stayed
Lonely and hid in the dark of the night,
Freezing where it was never needing a visa.
To my shadow that’s been waiting for my return,
Homeless except when I was walking by its side
In the summer light.
To my shadow that wishes to go to school
With the children of mourning but couldn’t fit
Through the classroom doors.
To my shadow that has caught cold now, that’s been
Sneezing and coughing no one there saying to it God bless!
To my shadows that’s been crushed by cars and vans,
Its chest pierced by shrapnel and bullets
Flying with no wings,
My shadows that no one’s attending to,
Bleeding black blood
Through its memory
Now, and forever.
This poem powerfully captures the harrowing reality of life for the inhabitants of Gaza amid the ongoing conflict. The imagery of the shadow symbolizes the pervasive fear and uncertainty that cast a gloom over the daily lives of innocent civilians, who find themselves caught in the unyielding barrage of artillery fire.
The final line, “Now, and forever,” leaves a haunting resonance, imbuing the poem with a sense of inevitable finality that echoes not only through its verses but also in the lived experiences of those it portrays, suggesting an enduring struggle that transcends time.
Tohas’ poems are a stark reminder of the suffering endured by the children and futility of this and every war. The next poem in this collection talks of landmarks in the nation, entitled Gaza Notebook (2021-2023):
My two eyes, when closed,
See different eyes:
One me leaving Gaza in peace,
In one piece,the other me getting jailed at the Erez crossing point
My head: a confused old TV channel
Picking up crossed signal.
This poem personifies the material things inside the house when it talks of
Frying pans miss the smell of olive oil
Clotheslines everywhere pine for soapscent
The flowerpot the window the key
Stones of houses after explosion get amnesia
This collection tells the reader of life in Gaza long before the beginning of the latest conflict of October 2023. Numerous elements within the verses of these poems highlight the profound strength and resilience that literature embodies as a form of resistance. The rich narratives they weave about grandfathers, sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers reach out to readers, forging a deep connection that transcends time and makes these stories immortal.
The simple yet powerful act of holding these poems in our hands and immersing ourselves in their words enables us to truly engage with the emotions and experiences they encapsulate, inviting us to share in the cultural legacies they represent.
The poems are alive; they are living and breathing impact statements from Gaza residents during a Genocide. The harrowing tales of daily mundane lives being interrupted and the memories cemented onto the page for preservation.
The poet paints a poignant picture of his grandparents, who live in the shadows of poverty. He writes, “Rain waters the stories that sleep on the old, tiled floor,” suggesting that the quiet, worn tiles hold the weight of countless memories and narratives waiting to be awakened. This evocative imagery calls to mind an African proverb: “When an old person dies, an entire library is lost.”
This wisdom resonates deeply in this context, reminding us that the experiences and stories of our elders are treasures that, once gone, can never be recaptured. The poet’s words serve as a powerful reminder of the rich legacy held by those who have lived through both hardship and history.
My grandfather stands still close to the well,
He never abandoned it, even after the Nakba,
Even after death.
His hands pour water down into the well.
In the refugee camp,
Where land is strewn with
Debris, where air chokes with rage,
My harvest is yet to arrive
my seeds only sprout on this page.
The reference to history and world politics is mixed with the personal:
I’ve personally lost three friends to war,
A city to darkness, and a language to fear.
In Palestine, children always cry…
We don’t have embassies, sir!
The one in Jerusalem is farther
than the Andromeda Galaxy.
In You Came into My Dream A letter to my brother Hudayfah (2000-2016) the poet addresses his dead brother whom he saw in his dream:
Your sight was so fresh and sharp that I felt you could see right through me,
Into my bleeding past. I am crying but my tears are cold. Tears are
falling on my feet, they burn the tiny, dark hairs on my toes. My feet
are bare. I have been walking for a long time, and the roads is strewn
with the remains of my grandfather’s bombed grave.
Now it’s 2024 and the cemetery you were buried in was razed by
Israeli bulldozers and tanks. How can I find you now?
This poem reminds the reader of the harrowing conditions in which the people have been living in for years and continue to endure. The Palestinian poet tells of the normalcy of daily life in a village.
A father wakes up at night, sees
The random colours on the wall,
Drawn by his four-year-old daughter.
The colors are about four foot high.
Next year they would be five,
but the painter has died
in an air strike.
There are no colors anymore,
There are no walls.
The poignancy of these words capture the horrifying and heartbreaking reality that inhabitants of Gaza now suffer. The text offers detailed instructions specifically designed for children, guiding them on the essential steps to take during an air raid. As the narrative unfolds, it paints a poignant picture of the challenges faced by these young individuals in such dire circumstances.
Following this emotional account, he writes in True or False: A Test by a Gazan Child (To the West) which transitions into a thought-provoking quiz aimed at critiquing the Western media, highlighting the pervasive misinformation that frequently circulates in its reporting:
- Palestine was empty of people before 1948
- Gazans can travel whenever they wish
- Parents take their children to the parks every month
- The only things that fall from the sky in Gaza are rain and bird poop
This quiz serves a dual purpose: it sheds light on the everyday experiences of the people living in Gaza while also offering a valuable history lesson for those in the West who may mistakenly assume that Gazans enjoy the freedom to move around within Gaza and the West Bank.
In this evocative poem, the author boldly takes on the influence of a legendary figure in American Beat poetry, skillfully echoing the style and themes of the iconic poem “Howl.” Through vivid imagery and poignant language, the poem captures the struggles and resilience of Gazans, drawing a stark contrast to the misconceptions held by outsiders:
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
Toha draws a poignant parallel between the current situation in Gaza and the struggles faced by Americans. In his reflections, he echoes the powerful words of poet Allen Ginsberg, using them as a lens to examine the plight of the American youth who have been tragically lost to the ravages of war, the grip of madness, and the chains of addiction.
Through his writing, Toha paints a vivid picture of despair and resilience, capturing the haunting realities that resonate across borders and generations in Gaza today, when he writes:
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed in a tent,
looking for water and diapers for kids;
destroyed by bombs;
a generation under the rubble
of their bombed houses;
I saw the best brains of my generation
protruding from their slashed heads.
The next literary American master of letters that Toha takes on is Walt Whitman:
I become grass in America, if you want me,
look for me under your boot-soles.
I become a child in Gaza, if you want me,
look for me under the rubble of our house.
In this poem dedicated to an American poet, the theme of the profound connection between humanity and nature takes center stage. Toha’s evocative words suggest a poignant irony: while you once eloquently expressed the bond between people and the natural world, America now stands, almost a century later, in stark contrast, denying the fundamental rights of the Gazans. This juxtaposition highlights the ongoing struggle for recognition and respect for nature and humanity alike, revealing a troubling disconnect that is still ongoing today.
The collection culminates with a poignant piece of art entitled ‘This is Not a Poem.’ It powerfully illustrates the harrowing reality of children caught in the crossfire of war, where the devastation of bombs tears lives apart. The piece evokes an overwhelming sense of despair, as it highlights the tragic reality that identifying these innocent victims in death has become a heartbreaking and nearly insurmountable challenge.
Inside each box, two hands,
Or maybe one,
Or maybe no hands; or none; a chest,
…
Grandfather, I don’t know where yours is,
But your wheelchair is surely nowhere inside
….
Brother, I know you’re sleeping in one,
But I never searched for it.
The poet recounts the tragic loss of his family members, conveying the profound guilt he grapples with as a survivor amidst such devastation. Through vivid imagery, he describes the gruesome aftermath of war, painting a picture of individuals who have suffered irreparable injuries, losing limbs and enduring unimaginable pain.
The chilling effects of exploding bombs are brought to life in his words, highlighting the horrific toll these acts of violence take on the bodies and spirits of innocent civilians. Each line reflects the weight of loss and suffering, evoking deep empathy and a sense of despair at the
human cost of conflict. The poet ends with the words:
This is not a poem.
This is a grave, not beneath the soil of Homeland
But above a flat, light, white
rag of paper.
In this concluding stanza, the message becomes even more powerful, emphasizing that this collection stands as a formidable act of resistance. It not only draws attention to the heart-wrenching struggles faced by those who have been uprooted from their homes but also celebrates the indomitable spirit of resilience that persists in the face of adversity.