[ad_1]
Children look enthusiastically through books in the children’s section, young people scan their covers, undergraduates look for a quiet place to work, while others drink coffee while reading. The smell of incense. Stack of books. The yellow banner was named Samir Mansour – the library and bookstore that housed Gaza’s most ardent readers.
When I found out I was a student of English literature – looking for novels, poetry collections, books from all over the world – I was guided by friends who knew I would find what I was looking for.
The first time I entered, I was amazed by thousands of books and left a collection of poetry by the late Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish and a Russian novel translated into Arabic. It was the largest bookstore in Gaza. Now there are only a few books left – including Ghassan Kanafani’s novel Returning to Haifa – the story of a Palestinian couple returning to Haifa after the 1967 war in search of their baby, who had to be left behind in the 1948 war (Nakba). How did that book endure all the flames and smoke to rekindle the vanished longing of the vanished homeland and the vanished Haifa?
I woke up on May 18 with the news. That morning, at 5:50 a.m. – the crack of dawn – an Israeli missile struck the bookstore. My memory was filled with the faces of the friends I had there, with the titles and covers of the books I had read or bought from there. Our books were burning, as were our memories. Our most important places were disappearing.
I wrote my first poem in 2014, when Israeli bombs were raining in Gaza, sitting in the corner of my room for three electric hours every day, listening to the radio and listening to the sound of bombs, drones and ambulances. I wrote the words – “I was born in Gaza.” I wanted to talk about what I lived in the tune of a poet or poetry lover. When the poem was over, I posted it on social media. The next day, I found a huge amount of likes and shares; my message was sent.
Growing up in Gaza is inspiring for everyone, but especially for poets – here life is exploding into parts of poetry and scattered everywhere. There is poetry at weddings, during the war, in the eyes of an old man sitting in front of his small shop, mourning the death of his child, in the tears of the lover who killed his boyfriend along with his entire family. he slept in his house, on the blue shores of Gaza, he takes me to where I want him and returns me to where I am the flames of bombs falling on the heads of the Gazans; wholeheartedly and wholeheartedly, this place can make you a poet.
In 2018, I created the first oral community in Gaza, the Gaza Poets Society. It is a community of young and aspiring poets (almost 30 people in total) who come together to exchange ideas, share our work, and connect with other poets from other parts of the world. We once met on the beach to share poetry and songs.
As a poet to us, it was difficult to see Israel as a target for Samir Mansour and other cultural and educational centers. I asked some of them to share their feelings.
Nadine Murtaja, 18: ‘We walk on broken glass in broken windows, we walk on stones that were once houses’
When I contacted Nadine via Facebook, who is a member of the Gaza Poet Association, when asked how she felt, she replied “still alive”.
Writing poetry for 18-year-olds in the al-Nasr district of central Gaza is an escape valve during the war.
“Two years ago, I found out that I’m really into poetry,” she explains. “Once I realize it, I document everything I come across in my life on paper; my tears, and cries make up my poems. That way, writing poetry becomes an escape for me – my world, far from the world I live in. “
“When the flames of war are kindled,” he writes.
In the latest Israeli attack on Gaza, he wrote:
‘There, on the other side,
time changes, hours go by and it gets dark,
the sky removes her dark dress, and then it’s morning,
but where I live and breathe, life constantly wears a black dress,
to deplore my earthly work,
which took a long time.
Here, the hanging clock is broken in my room,
Not only this, everyone’s watch is broken here,
my mother keeps saying:
they are all waiting for the elixir,
we have had pain and agony,
in this holy land we sleep and wake with the sound of bombing and gunfire
so the first light of day rises in the evening,
the sky shines with the blood of the martyrs,
here death sleeps not far from us,
we all walk towards freedom, towards hope,
we walk on the broken glass of our broken windows,
we walk on the stones that were once houses, carrying stories and secrets,
we walk with the cries of children and the cries of those who are mothers in our ears again and again. ‘
Nadine describes herself as “a kind of discreet person who finds it hard to talk to those around her about how she feels or feels.” He wonders if that’s why his poems are “vivid, realistic, and sharp”.
His favorite poet, Mahmoud Darwish, was born in 1941 and died in 2008 and is a Palestinian poet who grew up reading murals painted by school generations on school books and on the walls of refugee camps. Palestinian conscience.
“Every time I read his poetry, I find myself immersed in his words,” Nadin explains. “I’ve always wanted to go deeper when I wrote my own poetry. I also like how he mixed reality with his emotions to make his poetry so powerful. ”
Nadine believes that living in Gaza has helped her become a poet today, but says: “Writing cannot be influenced by circumstances, because no matter what poet lives, he will always go to his world, that is, to what he is writing.” .
The message to the world is, “Even if Palestine is not your national or political problem, don’t forget that it is a human problem in the first place.”
Group photo during the November 2018 Gaza Peace Anthem conference [Photo courtesy of Mohammed Moussa]Maha Jaraba, 22 years old: ‘There is only a small window for light to pass through’
“There is no way out in Gaza but poetry, it is the only medium that takes our souls to where we want them to be,” says 22-year-old Maha Jaraba, a refugee from al-Nusairat in Deir al-Balah. central Gaza. The overcrowded camp is home to more than 80,000 people who fled in 1948 during the Nakba era and their descendants. Maha studied Business Administration at Al-Quds University and is a member of the Gaza Poets Association.
“We are in the dark, in the dark, there is only a small window to let the lights in, to enter the breasts and to release the feeling of anger or to remove the obstacles to get into the leg. Poetry,” he says.
He encourages everyone around the table to write – poetry is the only way to feel free in Gaza, he says.
“I don’t think I would be a poet if I were born in a city other than Gaza, the darkest and darkest life will be here alone. The problems we have before us or the emotions we experience within us do not exist anywhere else. And it is these feelings that have made us poets, ”he reflects.
He refuses to remain silent about the hardships and savagery that Palestinians face: the ongoing attacks on Gaza, the siege, the deprivation of basic rights, the killing of children. He believes that the international community is turning a deaf ear to the Palestinians, but they will not remain silent.
“The only thing that frees us from the problems of war is poetry. I write as the bombs fall. While I was aware of the death of my people, I am still writing, ”he says.
The last poem Maha wrote was a free verse poem, expressing how scared she is of being broken, of dying in pieces, of not even being able to say goodbye to loved ones, because they cannot be identified. He wrote that he was sitting in the family home, in a room with all his relatives, listening to the sounds of bombs as he was writing. He thought it might be his last poem. “Escape went through my mind, the refuge of a life that has not become life, I am here today, I will be there tomorrow, and the fear lies between me and what I will be,” he wrote.
“Writing is the life we miss, and it’s Gaza that made us poets, pen that made us cry tears, writing is the only free medicine in this city,” he says.
When asked what his message is to the world, he replied: “I want the world to know that we are here, that we have dreams. We want a better tomorrow, not only to take part of our pain, but also part of our lives. ”
A poet performs the oral hymns of Peace in November 2018 [Photo courtesy of Mohammed Moussa]Omar Moussa, 23: “I think it’s fate that is writing me a poem”
The white eyes take on the final shape,
They then dribble and take the form of paper.
Balekin; breaks the mouths of war planes –
and pulls out teeth to kill and destroy.
Balekin;
demolished the borders of the siege:
and the walls of the sinking world
in his selfishness.
With bullets and blood; draws a free homeland
and a long coastline without edges
failing memories to sleep.
Omar Moussa
Omar Moussa is a 23-year-old poet, journalist and member of the Gaza Poet Association, and lives in the Jabalia Camp, the largest refugee camp in Gaza.
“Usually, literary writing, with its different forms, opens a window for us, especially when it comes to talking about what’s going on inside of us, like you think and I think, and it feels like we’re going to relax when you write,” Omar says.
According to Oma, there is no way to escape from a place like Gaza, not even by writing poetry. “If we see poetry as the door to escape from Gaza, that seems like a luxury that the people of Gaza don’t have. Reality is reality; you can’t skip that, and writing poetry is just cheating this reality. Here, there is death, waste, and a tiny life, but among the concretions of reality grows the flower, and it is the flower of poetry. ”
For Omar, poetry is an attempt to translate oneself, to crush reality, or to create a reality apart from what we experience.
His favorite poets are the Chilean poet Mahmoud Darwish, Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) and the Egyptian poets Amal Dunqul (1940-1983) and Ahmed Bakheet. “Particularly for no reason, you see that you have no interest in one type of poetry and no interest in others,” he says.
When I ask Omar if his poetry will reach people outside Gaza, he replies, “Maybe they read my poetry, but all I have to do is write it. If I wanted to send a message to the outside world, I would say, ‘There are people around us who live in spite of all death.’ “
Whether or not he writes during the war, he reflects: “I think it is fate that is writing me a poem – [whether] it’s a poem of death or a poem of life, it’s what I do this time [try to] the lava of the attack survived “.
[ad_2]
Source link
