Standing Tall Like Trees: From Gaza to Canada
How do trees survive when fall strips them of their green leaves, and snow suffocates them, turning them into rigid white ghosts that frighten birds and leave no room to breathe?
How do trees survive when fall strips them of their green leaves, and snow suffocates them, turning them into rigid white ghosts that frighten birds and leave no room to breathe?
“I am a walking dissonance, a transmission without a terminal.”
On a review that nearly didn’t happen.
The people named in this poem are the writers, painters, and musicians martyred in the genocide. They are only a few of the many artists who were martyred in the past two years of war against Gaza.
“I survived—came out of yesterday / alive, carried out on the shoulders / of the wind.”
Salah and Abdullah’s small bookshop in Nuseirat is a testament to the power of literature. A model of Palestinian endurance.
While gasping for breath, I write. While my heart is panting, I count all my organs. Who will delete this wound from memory? Who will draw the hardships from my heart? Who will calm it?
Husam Maarouf writes about what it’s meant to be a reader before and during genocide.
Gaza-based Palestinian author Alaa Alqaisi asks herself the question posed more than half a century ago at the end of Ghassan Kanafani’s “Men in the Sun”: Why didn’t they knock on the walls of the tank?