Yahya Ashour was born in Gaza, Palestine, in 1998. He is a touring poet and award-winning author who has been reading his work across the United States since Israel commenced its genocide in Gaza in October 2023. Although Ashour originally arrived in the United States in September 2023 to attend the Palestine Writes Literature Festival, he has been stranded away from home ever since. The genocide has prevented his return to Gaza, where his family members remain.
Ashour came to the United States with an accomplished literary background: he is the author of two books in Arabic, That's Why Rayan Walks This Way (2021), a children’s book, and You’re a Window, They’re Clouds (2018), a poetry collection; his writing has been printed in international journals, ranging from Al-Akhbar in Lebanon to Al-Araby Al-Jadeed in the United Kingdom; he is featured in myriad anthologies, including “Palestinian Poetry Today”; and his writings have been translated into English, Spanish, French, Italian, Portuguese, Japanese, Finnish, and Norwegian.
Since Fall 2023, Ashour has read his poetry at more than thirty-three U.S. universities, including Princeton University, Stanford University, the University of Chicago, and the University of Michigan. His event, entitled “What the World’s Silence Says: A Reading With Gazan Poet Yahya Ashour,” continues to attract large cohorts of students, faculty, staff, and other excited listeners at various American organizations.
Ashour recently released a poetry collection, A Gaza of Siege and Genocide, with Mizna. The collection includes a beautiful array of writing and illustrations composed by Ashour while in exile. As the poet’s 19 family members attempt to escape the genocide in Gaza, all proceeds from the book go toward funding their evacuation.
Palestine Square spoke with Yahya Ashour about A Gaza of Siege and Genocide, the Arabic literary tradition, and his experience in exile.
Thank you for speaking to us, Yahya, about your recently published poetry collection, A Gaza of Siege and Genocide. You begin your collection of excerpts with the lines, “To my family, / this is me trying / to save you / with my words, / hoping one day / my words too will / reunite us again.” What role do poetry and the written word play in this genocide?
The dedication page was always the hardest part of all of the books I worked on before this one. I spent a lot of time trying to compose it in a way that fit the general vibe of the book and also made sense to my heart. For this book, I never imagined that I would have to dedicate it to my family in Gaza whom I'm trying to save. It's a great burden that I have been carrying, and I finally decided to place it on the shoulders of my words. I'm not sure what role should poetry play in this genocide, but that was the role I chose for my poetry. Now I spend a lot of time thinking if my poetry is yet to be up for this role, and how would I look at my poetry or poetry in general if it failed to play this role. I don't know if words were ever able to save a single life, I don't want to know. My expectations of my poetry don't stop at just saving my family, I also want my poetry to help me reunite with them, reunite with my aging mother, and be able to whisper in our reunion hug: it was you who did all of this, the way you spoke to me made the poet I am today, the poet I still aspire to be, it was your poetry that helped me survive here for all these past months in this ugly cruel country, the United States that can't stop dividing other countries.
I'm not sure if it does help. I can only hope. I can only try. I always wondered how exiled poets were able to survive away from their home, I never really imagined my life away from Gaza. Not that I was hopeful about the future of Gaza, but because I wasn't hopeful poetry would stick along. Poetry is a privilege before it's a burden. I wish many of the silent poets realized that. I wish they also realize that they're not actually poets, poetry is an honor they don't deserve.
In a speech I gave at an event in Michigan, I criticized pro-Palestine supporters especially here in the U.S., I said: "People usually talk about us (Gazans), but they are rarely courageous and generous enough to let us (Gazans) talk" and I gave some examples based on my experience having lived in Michigan for the entirety of the genocide unfolding so far. Some people were comfortable enough to get offended by my words, talk behind my back, and/or stop talking to me instead of working with me to fix what I see as alarming problems in the movement. Some of these reactions rather proved the point I was trying to make and exposed the real intention behind their support to Gaza, which was, in that case, to feel better about themselves, not caring about how their reactions and lack of action would make me feel while I'm struggling with anxiety, depression, loneliness, and even suicidal thoughts. I'll never stop speaking truth to power, and I'll never forget what the powerful did to me.
I think some of these Arab Americans think that giving money to Gaza is more important (less harmful) than giving their time to Gaza. I'm not afraid to say that after having visited many places across the states, the smallest audience that turned out for my event was actually in Dearborn, where most Arab Americans live. I think that the Arab leaders of the community didn't show up because my event wasn't about giving money. Hearing someone from Gaza was not a priority. McDonald's and Starbucks are still in business in Dearborn, and Coca-Cola and Pepsi products are still sold in Arab restaurants all over the country. Nothing more than that proves that many Arab Americans are following the footsteps of America the blind, or blindfolding their eyes for America's sake.
I have spoken at 33 American universities so far, including Princeton, Stanford, the University of Pennsylvania, Northwestern, as well as many American organizations. Planning all of this was super challenging and overwhelming and I was met with many obstacles and threats that I was able to overcome or ignore with the help of many amazing organizers. I can't say that I got to enjoy any of the places I have been to. I wasn't there for fun. I was there to convey an urgent obvious message. I have been to many airports, restaurants, hotels, houses, cars, airplanes, buses, and trains. I met hundreds of people who wanted to keep asking me questions. I received tons of messages and emails before and after each event. When I look back, I don't know how I managed to do all of this. I hope my family and friends back home realize that I did it for them and that it gives a little bit of hope. My heart becomes thinner and thinner each day, I hope people who got a little piece of it cherish it, nourish it, and give it back to Gaza.
I used to say I survived life under siege in Gaza because I was able to read and write poetry. But after watching the continued horrors of this genocide, I don't know what the point is in surviving, what's the point in living? My poetry now doesn't feel enough. Nothing I could write would nearly be enough to collect the scattered sufferings my Gazans have been going through. Nothing could have prepared me for that as a poet, and I blame no one but myself for that. I could have worked harder, I could have been a better poet. I'm not and I'll never be the perfect poet for this genocide. Gazans in Gaza are running for their lives, and when they get out of Gaza, they start running away from their lives. Life owes Gazans a lot. Poets and artists owe Gaza a lot. For Gazans, Gaza is all they know about life, and the rest of the world is a mere alternative reality. It's hard to imagine, hard to accept that Gaza and the rest of the world exist on the same ungodly planet.
I think "One Thousand and One Nights" also known as "The Arabian Nights" is the most popular literary work the Arabs are known for. Gaza felt like the character Scheherazade, narrating victims instead of stories to delay its execution while the Arabs along with the entire world sit and watch — and read. What readers don't realize is that this Scheherazade is actually being murdered every night. Would it take one thousand and one night for this genocide to end by itself or for the Arabs to do anything serious about it? I wonder.
I think that art and literature from Gaza never had a real respected place in the rich history of Arab or even Palestinian art and literature. We have been buried and silenced under siege and wars not just by israelis but also by our kin. We, Gazans, are known to other Palestinians and Arabs and the entire world as those people who get murdered in massacres of tens and now thousands of people, never just a singular regular murder.
I dare most readers to name a single book or movie of any kind that emerged from Gaza under siege and became mainstream in people's minds. Most of what you think of as popular Palestinian art or literature emerged from other Palestinians, not Gazans.
Gazans, under siege, struggled so much to have their art picked up by publishers or producers or even just get it noticed. Even today, during the genocide, writers and artists from Gaza are still struggling to make their voices heard.
It's difficult to watch Palestinian and Arab writers and artists post or publish anything that's not relevant to the genocide in Gaza. The individuals are not alone to blame for their lack of emotional intelligence, but also the Palestinian and Arab cultural organizations who seem to have moved on from what's happening in Gaza. It's especially appalling because these same organizations have long used the sufferings of Gazans under siege and war as valuable content for their project proposals submitted to their foreign donors. It's painful to talk about a rich history of Arab culture when it’s been 294 days of genocide. It's difficult to claim we belong now to a history we have always longed to be part of.
I have been struggling to find literature or art that actually lives up to this horror. A lot of it just feels ridiculous, unnecessary, and a great waste of time and effort at this moment. I was only able to stick to and find comfort in two sources of great Arabic literature. The first one is the Quran, and the second is the classic Arabic poetry. I feel like a lot of lines in these sources give me a pure sincere much-needed Arab hug, that Arabs now fail to provide.
One of the hardest moments I have ever lived watching this genocide was when I learned that my room back home got destroyed, I lost all the books, souvenirs, and clothes I had. One of the ways I found myself trying to find consolation is that I started to convince myself that all these things, especially the books probably don't matter now that my whole perspective on life and the world have completely, radically, extremely changed. However, I always find it hard to overcome losing five poetry collections that were signed by poet Najwan Darwish. I cherished them a lot, and I miss them. I knew Najwan only online, I feel like he discovered me and encouraged me to face the world with my poetry. He made me believe and doubt my poetry at the same time, and that I think is the best training you could ever get as a poet. His book covers were grey and titles were in red, I always found myself living and mouthing lines from them. israel took them away from me forever and I'll never forgive them, especially for that, above anything else.
