Poems for Palestine; Envisioning a Palestinian Homeland through Poetry
Words by Nuray Abduyeva
Following the ‘Cultural Resistance: Celebrating Palestinian Art, Culture and Heritage’ exhibition, the Norman Rea Gallery recently organised a spoken word poetry night to provide a forum for students to discuss occupation, apartheid and ethnic cleansing. The poetry night was an opportunity for poets to express solidarity with Palestine in the same manner as artists did for the exhibition but by using a different medium to do so. The theme of the poetry night was envisioning a Palestinian homeland. In this article, I have included the work of four poets: Tasneem Maher, Keely Figi, Nima Elnour and Henry Raby. For each poet, I will include: a brief autobiography, the poem and their explanation of the poem. Themes of ancestry and identity in Tasneem’s poem are closely interwoven with threads of resilience and cultural heritage in Keely’s poem alongside allyship, activism and empowerment in Nima’s and Henry’s. Yet, each poet offers their own personal interpretation of the conflict in Palestine by drawing upon their diverse roots: namely Palestinian, American, Sudanese and English.
Photos from the Opening Night of ‘Cultural Resistance: Celebrating Palestinian Art, Culture and Heritage’. Courtesy of Norman Rea Gallery, 2024.
Tasneem Maher
Tasneem Maher is an Palestinian writer and poet. A Best of the Net nominee, her work has been featured in Vagabond City Lit, Dardishi, and Poetry Online, amongst others. She is also fiction and personal essays editor at Sumou Magazine. You can find her and her work at mythosgal.carrd.co.
Poem:
from Amateur Ethnography
I am playing tour guide for the day.
In the streets where, once, she met her husband, Yara’s mother
recounts her childhood in Baghdad. Art school. The ceiling
that fell on her at 16 when her school was bombed. The scar
in her eyebrow. She is looking towards where the sun
will set in a few hours when she says that she could never go back
to Baghdad because she could never bear
to see all the ways in which it has been desecrated.
She only has a few aunts left there, she says. She does not say,
There, I had another life. How many lives?
No altars, no angels, no guardians, no rivers.
What does it mean to love something so much
that you can no longer bear to look directly at it?
A different night in Amman. On the way home,
in the car, on a street with no lampposts, only the faint reflection
of headlights, my father is reminiscing,
says it might be nice to visit Baghdad again.
Almost thirty years have passed since he left
but in the tone of his voice, I hear, for the first time, the tinny echo
of home, home, home. Until then,
I had thought my father like me, another beast of no origin.
Another life, yes, but each of us lived countless lifetimes before
we were born. The essence of our placeless exile,
my alien mother tongue. I had forgotten that in this life,
he had been born native in a way that I never was.
All of my archives are the discoveries of a recent past.
I fell in love with Fairouz when I was 14, saw on a map how close
to the Mediterranean Zeita is at 17, read my first
Kanafani story at 20. Living in a house that performs such pride
in its history but is afraid to even glance at its shadow
renders one victim to archival obsession. Oral history, unreliable.
For example, my friends and I used to play a game:
how far back can you stretch your name? I could do seven generations
of one branch, in an infinite unfurling of lineage.
Truth only in documents.
For example, on a train, reading Men in the Sun,
I am shocked by the mention of Zeita, as if I am not proof
of its existence already. Or more accurately, proof enough..
Memory is mostly texture, what is able to withstand time’s rough hands.
Once, I decided to embark on a pilgrimage
of ethnography. I asked my mother to draw me a family tree.
She had not yet completed the structure of the tree when I told her to stop,
overwhelmed by the enormity of the absence the document implied.
I’m lying. I asked my mother to tell me
about her father. I said, I don’t just want the
obituary, I want to know what he was actually
like, and she refused.
I could not force her to tell me. I did
not want to. My first
lesson: The archive will not save
you,
and neither will history. The second:
Marginalia is still part of the
archive. Most of us won’t even
make it there.
Explanation of “from Amateur Ethnography”:
This poem is taken from a piece which was conceived while thinking about poetics of witness in relation to the histories of migration and displacement embedded in my family history across three generations. In a moment that calls for us to be as loud as possible, navigating the silences in which those histories have been housed for so long was challenging and fraught with guilt. Guided by Fargo Tbakhi’s idea of ‘unarchaeology’, I try to rebury the few fragments I have access to, and to reflect on this idea of lineage and access, while still giving shape to my experience as a Palestinian.
Photos from the Opening Night of ‘Cultural Resistance: Celebrating Palestinian Art, Culture and Heritage’. Courtesy of Norman Rea Gallery, 2024.
Keely Figi:
Keely is a third year linguistics student at the University of York. She writes: “I have been interested in poetry since I can remember, but especially started writing as a high schooler in the US. I was in a state-wide literary criticism competition, and as part of it we had to read a collection of poems each year. This ranged from Edna St.Vincent Millay to Percy Blysshe Shelley, each introducing me to a different facet of poetry. I think it is through poetry that we say the things we are all too afraid to say out loud, and all too afraid to hear. But we need to have the courage to speak and the courage to listen. So in the words of Millay, ‘Take up the song, forget the epitaph’:
Poem:
Olive Tree
I came across an ancient recipe
borne by gentle hands
and passed down from generation
as a promise to their breathing lands.
I could almost taste it in my mouth:
the succulent savory, sweet, and spicy;
and I wondered how many years had passed
before this dish could make its way to me.
In another life, I’d be a guest at their table
regaling stories of a traveller’s life;
and in turn they’d bless me with their history
and this traveling, passed-down recipe.
I’d tell them of all the stitches I’d seen
and they’d rest in my hands their mother’s embroidery.
Each intricate stitch telling a story,
adorning your eyes with a sweet symphony.
It is a bitter taste in my mouth
knowing I am not even their enemy
but rather, a symbol of their demise.
A reminder of what couldn’t be
all due to my father’s greed.
But it is. And it always will be.
For even in the face of those
who burn down your olive trees,
chain you to the earth
and tell you to run if you want to be free,
you are gracious enough
to share this immortal recipe.
From the river to the sea,
Palestine will be free.
Explanation of “Olive Tree”:
“I remember seeing a bunch of Palestinian recipes around October when the strikes started. They shared the traditions of the recipe and how long it had been in their family, and all I could think was how brave these people were. They started sharing everything about their culture with the world, one woman even shared a video of her trying to finish an old cross stitch project her grandmother had started and never finished. It made me view the Palestinian people as wonderful hosts, sharing and teaching the world about their culture even in the face of conflict. As an American citizen, I can’t help but feel disgust at my own country for perpetuating the conflict. I know back home millions have protested for Biden to call for a ceasefire, but nothing is heard. It is the US politicians’ best interest to aid Israel, at the cost of their own country’s livelihood. The US is in debt and its citizens cannot afford this war. And of course the Palestinian people should not suffer for this greed. I remember reading about how some Palestinian families had tended to specific olive trees for generations upon generations, and then so quickly these trees were destroyed by the strikes. They were unable to leave Gaza, but were told to move if they wanted to keep their lives. And even throughout this, they have told us their stories, shared their culture, and unveiled their dreams. I can’t think of a more resilient thing.”
Photos from the Opening Night of ‘Cultural Resistance: Celebrating Palestinian Art, Culture and Heritage’. Courtesy of Norman Rea Gallery, 2024.
Nima Elnour:
“I am a Sudanese American poet based in Dubai. I grew up in the UAE and went to the University of York for my LLB. My unique multicultural upbringing helps shape my poetry. I often explore themes such as romance, existentialism and heartbreak. My most recent works, however, centre around the Sudanese identity as a child of the diaspora. I started writing poetry at the age of 17. The start of my journey was therapeutic for me and I often used my poetry as a form of self reflection, however I started performing my work and sharing it with the world 2 years ago. This opened up a world of new opportunities and meaning to my life. With this newfound love for sharing my writing I hope to publish my first book soon! Poetry for me is the most powerful tool for awareness and it really helps connect people.”
Poem:
Poetess in Protest
Hope was born from the ink of her pen.
The ink of a poet begging for peace amongst chaos.
Begging for the screams to stop
Begging her tears to dry…
She wrote down words of reliance,
Each stanza braver than the last.
Each stanza bolder than the past.
Poets digging graves with their bare hands,
Making space for their mourning.
Poets painting dreadful images of loss,
Filling up wounds with olive oil and sea salt.
Filling up wounds the only way they know how.
Dreaming of a land without occupation
Wishing their nightmares turned sweet.
Wishing they never entered this torturous sleep.
The pain.
The silent cries.
Bleeding.
How do you write a poem about a home claimed by strangers,
Strangers disguised in masks of blue and white.
Writing poetry was all she knew.
Never silent, even when they begged for her to be silenced.
Writing poetry was the only way she could be free.
Explanation of “Poetess in Protest”:
“The inspiration behind this poem is one of my good poet friends, Jennah, from our local scene here in Dubai (also known as @Journeyofarambler on Instagram). Jennah is a Palestinian poet based in Dubai whom I’ve had the privilege of witnessing perform amazing pieces and relentlessly bringing awareness to the suffering in Palestine, shedding light on what is important. I decided to use her as my muse because I believe that she truly captured my definition of a poet who will help rewrite history. Poets were seen as revolutionaries in many cultures and there were periods in time where poets were even exiled for their writing. So this piece aims to capture the strength involved in the writing process. Additionally, as a Poet whose homeland is going through a period of war, these events also influenced my writing as I explore the resilience involved in continuing to write even when many odds are against you.”
Photos from the Opening Night of ‘Cultural Resistance: Celebrating Palestinian Art, Culture and Heritage’. Courtesy of Norman Rea Gallery, 2024.
Henry Raby:
Henry Raby is a York-born punk poet. He’s been writing and performing anarchic verse for the better part of a decade now, from the back rooms of pubs to picket lines to festivals, fields and rallies. He’s the Artistic Director of York’s spoken word organisation Say Owt and co-hosts the Vandal Factory podcast discussing arts and activism.
www.facebook.com/henryrabypoetry
Poem:
AMAL
Amal finishes writing FREE GAZA on the window condensation
(in upper case)
Hops off the bus at the station
Tense like tortured lightning
Questing to her first ever demonstration
This is upper case EXCITING
She thinks about her upcoming detention for decorating the canteen with
Palestine stickers and how when she was approached by Mr Robins (Head of
Year) she’d rallied against the school’s stifling of political voices. And when
Mr Robins (Head of Year) told her this activism was nothing less than a
childish whine she flashed him the v-sign.
Victory…
Amal can feel the thumping chants before she rounds the corner
Skips that little bit faster so she doesn’t miss a rhyme
And everyone is here
From the road to Queens Hotel
From the road to the Art Gallery
From the road to Millenium Square
Ripping off the paths like something’s gonna tear
The streets stretch at the seams
Overflowing reds and white dance with the blacks and greens
Heart and demo swell
And they all chant for a ceasefire, for peace and for justice
Muslims, Jews, Christians and those with faith in just us
And onlookers clapping, clapping, clapping.
Fair play, this march can be scary
There’s…facepaint
And blow-up water melons
And toddlers in pushchairs waving teeny flags
And little keffiyeh scarves on little licky dogs
And someone hands Amal a megaphone
And then it really kicks off
The extremism on display is a teenager with something urgent to say
If you want to shout above the bombs and sniper shots and drones
Hand a young person a megaphone
She imagines everyone is here
The displaced bathed in sunlight free from their cells
The families united at last across borders
Clutching generation-old keys in fists
And children giggling at the theatre, at the circus
Between chants is
The pluck of an oud
The prayer of thanks
The clop of a horse
The taste of olives
The fine texture of a dress
The pressure of a gauze
The jeering from blunt blokes is drowned out by applause.
They parade past the line-up of the red-handed rich who reaped what they
sowed
The arms dealers dripping blood onto the Headrow
CEOs who made a killing from settlements hold their heads low
Next to politicians wibbling without spines and the trolls and media and bot
farms who lied.
The military who repent their choices
Haunted by white flags and pleading voices.
We are changed, changed, changed.
Amal marches
Briefly thinks about school on Monday morning
And her hope grown to blaze from a flicker
And she’s already planning where to place the next wave of stickers
Explanation of “AMAL”:
“Amal is inspired by the people I’ve marched alongside each week at the Leeds demonstrations. It’s about hope (Amal means hope in Arabic) and that young people give me faith. Every demonstration is someone’s first foray into activism and finding their voice. It’s a poem about fighting for human rights, through the eyes of an idealistic and cheeky teenager.”
