{"id":172500,"date":"2026-01-02T10:37:46","date_gmt":"2026-01-02T15:37:46","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=172500"},"modified":"2026-01-02T13:14:17","modified_gmt":"2026-01-02T18:14:17","slug":"gaza-the-stadium-of-the-soul-and-other-poems","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2026\/01\/02\/gaza-the-stadium-of-the-soul-and-other-poems\/","title":{"rendered":"“Gaza\u2014the stadium of the soul” and Other Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

NIGHTFALL (AFTER ASIMOV AND EMERSON) (4)<\/em>, 2017, CYANOTYPE EXPOSED BY STARLIGHT ON FOUND BOOK PAGE, 9 1\/10 X 5 9\/10 IN. COURTESY OF ALA EBTEKAR AND THE THIRD LINE. FROM OUR WINTER 2024 ISSUE.<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cI\u2019d been angry for a while, and confused about what to do, and as soon as I was decided, I felt a relief,\u201d Alice Oswald told Rachael Allen in our Art of Poetry<\/a> interview in the new Winter issue. Oswald had decided to join more than five hundred protesters in London\u2019s Parliament Square in August in support of Palestine Action, which the British government had designated a terrorist group. British police arrested Oswald, as she had expected and planned for, though her only previous interaction with the law had been \u201coccasionally break[ing] the speed limit.\u201d At the time, Oswald was mentoring young Palestinian poets through the Hands Up Project<\/a>, a charity set up by Nick Bilbrough. Being involved in these young poets\u2019 lives, Oswald said, made it impossible not to act. She worked with five others\u2014two of whom worked with students in Arabic and three of whom helped them write in English\u2014to mentor thirteen teenage students. \u201cSome students had already been evacuated to Cairo, some were in the West Bank; others were surviving in tents or half ruined buildings in Gaza,\u201d she told us in an email. \u201cThere were times when hunger, bereavement, displacement or lack of internet made it impossible to meet up. On these occasions, mentors exchanged poems intermittently through WhatsApp or voice messages.\u201d Still, they tried to get together as a group at least once a month, and shared a Google Doc of their poems so they could read each other\u2019s work. Rebecca Ruth Gould, a professor at SOAS University of London, invited the Hands Up Project to collaborate on a book called From Dust We Rise<\/em>: New Poetry from Palestine<\/em>, which collects the work of these Palestinian poets.<\/em> The Review<\/em> is publishing several of their poems here. These poems, Oswald said, are \u201can astonishing record not only of the darkness we have all been through, but also of human dignity, courage, patience, and recovery.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Gaza\u2014the stadium of the soul<\/strong>
\nby Bassim Helmi Hijazi (twenty years old)<\/p>\n

On a land choked with blood,
\nthere lies a field with no green grass
\nits soil the ashes of shattered homes.
\nThe touchlines are not drawn in white chalk
\nbut in the tears of mothers.
\nThe two goalposts, a child who lost his arms
\nand a father searching for the scent of his child
\nbeneath the stones.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

And the crossbar between them
\nis the silence of the world,
\nunyielding as iron,
\nunshaken by screams.
\nThe ball is not leather, not cloth.
\nIt is the heart of Gaza
\nkicked by pain from one side,
\nblocked by resilience from the other.<\/p>\n

The referee\u2019s whistle is never heard,
\nfor the bombing deafens every ear.
\nExtra time stretches without end;
\nevery minute is a match,
\nevery night another half.
\nEvery goal we score
\nis canceled out by absence.<\/p>\n

Yet still we play. We run\u2014though weary.
\nWe chant\u2014though in tears. We shake
\nthe ground as a striker shakes the goal.
\nIn the stands of ruin, a crowd of barefoot children,
\nand grieving mothers, raising flags of torn cloth,
\nthey chant for life, they chant
\nfor a dawn that must come,
\na dawn that blows the final whistle,
\nthe whistle of truce.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When I am gone\u00a0<\/strong>
\nby Saleh Al Khalidi (seventeen years old)<\/p>\n

Don\u2019t lay flowers at the door
\nI passed by a thousand times,
\nand no one ever saw me<\/p>\n

Don\u2019t search for me in silence,
\nI was the silence
\nyou never heard.<\/p>\n

When my shadow falls from the wall,
\nyou\u2019ll realize
\nthe wall was sheltering me.<\/p>\n

But don\u2019t worry
\nblessings are invisible
\nuntil they\u2019re taken away.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The color red
\n<\/strong>by Alaa Kamal al Ban\u2019na (fifteen years old)<\/p>\n

I do not like the color red
\nBut it lives in my knee
\nThrobbing with every pain
\nReminding me
\nI came out from under bombs
\nBut not completely<\/p>\n

I am now in Egypt
\nThe hospital bed beneath me
\nMy father\u2019s voice
\nRemains there
\nIn Gaza
\nSilencing his name between my ribs
\nSo I won\u2019t cry out loudly<\/p>\n

I follow the news nightly
\nI count the raids
\nlike I count my breath
\nI say:
\nI wish he wasn\u2019t there
\nI wish he was here<\/p>\n

Even as I bleed
\nI pass a red phase
\nThis is not life
\nBut a waiting room
\nwith cold walls
\nA screen carrying nothing
\nexcept a martyr\u2019s face<\/p>\n

I believe it is my duty
\nTo heal
\nTo stand again
\nNot just for myself
\nBut for my father
\nFor the rubble
\nWaiting for us to rebuild
\nWith wounded hands<\/p>\n

I love the silence
\nBecause inside me
\nThere is a scream
\nToo big for words<\/p>\n

I do not like the color red
\nBut it lives in my knee
\nThrobbing with every pain
\nReminding me
\nI came out from under bombs
\nBut not completely.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Message
\n<\/strong>by Hala Madukh (seventeen years old)<\/p>\n

How do I tell the world
\nI\u2019m drowning on dry land?
\nIn the sand, in a small bottle
\nclosed, shiny, and inside me
\nscreaming, crying, in pain.
\nMy voice is inaudible
\nand transparent, here in Gaza.
\nThe world is on the other side
\nhappily, freely, and safely.
\nI tried to break the bottle
\nonly ash and rocky nights,
\nscary sounds and the color red.
\nThe voice of death calling.
\nInside is hell in a bottle,
\nbut outside it looks magical.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

What is your name?
\n<\/strong>by Islam Kamal al Ban\u2019na (sixteen years old)<\/p>\n

They asked me what is your name?
\nI said: the most beautiful of names<\/p>\n

They asked me about my age
\nI said: the moment of my existence<\/p>\n

They asked me about my work
\nI said: I sow goodness and kindness without a signature<\/p>\n

They asked me about my perfume
\nI said: the kind word<\/p>\n

They asked me about my height
\nI said: my self-esteem with which I rise above
\nthe reproach of the sky<\/p>\n

They asked me about my weight
\nI said: in adversity a mountain and in joy a feather<\/p>\n

They asked me about my address
\nI said: a wayfarer without an address<\/p>\n

They asked me about the world
\nI said: it taught me poetry.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cThey asked me about the world \/ I said: it taught me poetry.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[68562],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-172500","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n"Gaza\u2014the stadium of the soul" and Other Poems by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"January 2, 2026 \u2013 \u201cThey asked me about the world \/ I said: it taught me poetry.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2026\/01\/02\/gaza-the-stadium-of-the-soul-and-other-poems\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" 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