writing

Friday Haiku

/ Tracy Abell / 1 Comment

look closely
who-who do you see
one great horned owl

Bear Creek Greenbelt Park. February 28, 2025

Thank you, Amy Law, for showing me the owl nest. While we didn’t see American Dippers, it was still a lovely walk and talk.

Friday Haiku + notes: on Nazism

/ Tracy Abell / 9 Comments

new administration
billionaire’s Nazi salute
believe what you see

NOTES:
1) The above shows Elon Musk at Trump’s inaugural parade on January 20, 2025. (Photo by ANGELA WEISS / AFP)
2) The American Defamation League (ADL) which supposedly exists to combat antisemitism, responded to Musk’s Nazi salute with this [emphasis mine]:
“This is a delicate moment. It’s a new day and yet so many are on edge. Our politics are inflamed, and social media only adds to the anxiety,” the ADL wrote in a Monday post on Musk’s social platform X. “It seems that @elonmusk made an awkward gesture in a moment of enthusiasm, not a Nazi salute, but again, we appreciate that people are on edge.”
In case you’ve forgotten, last year the ADL decried the “antisemitism” of college students (many of them Jewish) who protested their tuition and taxes being used to fund the genocide in Palestine. Notably, the ADL url for their “Campus Crisis Daily” contains the words “no tolerance for antisemitism.”  Apparently, ADL can tolerate Nazi salutes from white supremacist billionaires, but draws the line at Jewish students speaking out against genocide.
3) It’s not only the ADL tripping over themselves to excuse a Nazi salute, a TV weather forecaster from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, was fired after calling out Musk’s Nazi salute on social media.
4)  NBC News edited their footage to remove the Nazi salute while the Washington Post referred to Musk’s appearance as “exuberant.”
5) Religion Dispatches breaks down the media coverage in the U.S. and around the world: While Global Media Are Clear on Musk’s Nazi Salute US Media Engage in ‘Nazi-Washing’ 
6) This is a very good time to remember George Orwell’s book 1984:

For above graphic: h/t to @thelazycanuck.bsky.social

Take them at their words and actions. Believe what you see. Reject the gaslighting.

Coming in for a landing

/ Tracy Abell / 8 Comments

I’ve been losing myself in revisions of my middle grade novel–grateful for the distraction from this brutal reality–and am close to being finished.

Sandhill Crane at Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge. March 12, 2024

While I’m still a day or two away from being done, I believe in celebrating every step along the way. So, today I celebrate myself and this project as I prepare for the final landing. Yay!

Literary institutions to authors: don’t speak of Gaza

/ Tracy Abell / 8 Comments

Earlier this week, I highlighted how anti-Zionists in the Jewish community are being  targeted by Jewish institutions, schools and synagogues, for expressing solidarity with Palestinians. It’s a heartbreaking situation that has fractured communities and led to feelings of pain and isolation for those bravely speaking out on behalf of our shared humanity. Unfortunately, that’s not the only community being torn apart over Zionism.

Writers are also facing the same kinds of pressure from literary institutions. Yesterday, Truthout published the following from author Lisa Ko: “Literary Institutions Are Pressuring Authors to Remain Silent About Gaza.” The article begins with this (emphasis mine):

When writer and disability justice activist Alice Wong received a MacArthur Fellowship earlier this month, she shared a statement about accepting it “amidst the genocide happening in Gaza.” The backlash was swift, with a deluge of posts on X attacking Wong’s character and accusing her of antisemitism.

This conflation of opposition to Israel’s military action with hatred of Jewish people is only one part of a broader wave of political and social repression that is attempting to silence writers speaking out against the war. In the past month alone, authors who have criticized Israel’s ongoing bombardment of Gaza — which is funded largely by the U.S. — have been labeled extremists, been suspended and fired from faculty jobs, and targets of defamation and harassment.

Ko goes on to detail how she received death and rape threats as a result of her expressing concern for the safety of a Muslim woman scheduled to be on an upcoming  Writers Institute festival panel with Ko. However, Writers Institute isn’t the only institution pressuring writers to remain silent in the face of genocide. PEN America holds this mission statement — “PEN America stands at the intersection of literature and human rights to protect free expression in the United States and worldwide” — and yet feels comfortable pressuring authors to keep their mouths shut in order to be eligible for literary prizes.

A culture that demands certain political allegiances from its writers and artists at the risk of losing career opportunities is one that is antithetical to democratic values, and harkens back to the McCarthy-era Hollywood blacklist that barred writers from employment on suspicions of “subversive” and “un-American” leanings. 

I write for young readers and for many, many years belonged to and volunteered for the largest international organization dedicated to children’s writing and illustration: Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI). I cancelled my membership several years ago because of how SCBWI treated a Palestinian woman who questioned SCBWI’s one-sided support for Israel following an attack on Gaza. I’ve never regretted that move, especially since SCBWI, which exists purely on behalf of creators for children, remains silent in the face of a genocide in which children are being shot in the head by snipers. I now belong to Story Sunbirds: a kidlit collective of authors and illustrators who stand up for children with all our hearts. I feel much more comfortable in that community.

Reading Ko’s article made me incredibly sad. Institutions that supposedly exist to uplift voices and create stronger bonds between humans all around the globe are instead using coercion and threats to keep people from speaking out on behalf of fellow humans. Please take a few minutes to read the article: “Literary Institutions Are Pressuring Authors to Remain Silent About Gaza.”

We can’t stop talking about Palestine.

Friday Haiku: on freedom of the press

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments

religious school mob
attacks journalist
supremacist frenzy

Note: this happened on June 5 in occupied Jerusalem during the “Flag March.” Palestinian journalist Saif Al-Qawasmi was attacked, first by students of a religious school and then beaten by Israeli police. Journalist Nir Hasson tried to protect Qawasmi and was also beaten. Hasson, who works for the newspaper Haaretz, took this photo. Other images can be seen here.

Raising a middle finger to A.I.

/ Tracy Abell / 15 Comments
After this morning’s writing session in which I sought refuge from our current reality by working (some more) on chapter 8 of my middle grade novel, I came here to check my WordPress dashboard. In my Contacts spam folder, was the following:
Edited to add this gem from another spammer on 6.5.24:
This state-of-the-art web app allows you to create captivating children’s books using advanced AI technology. It takes care of both the writing and illustration, and all you need to do is input your ideas (or let the app come up with the idea too, LOL). No writing or illustration skills needed!

Drunk on writing

/ Tracy Abell / 6 Comments

On a personal level, 2024 has brought an awful lot of pain and hardship to people I love, making these first five months feel like an entire year has already passed. And when I factor in the horrors of the U.S.–sponsored genocide of Palestinians, the emotional weight of these days is almost more than I can bear. But I’m now finding consistent refuge in my writing because I’ve made it a daily priority.

Rather than trying to cram a writing session into whatever slots I could find in my days and then saying oh-well if it didn’t happen, writing is now (again) part of my morning routine. As a result, I’ve been making slow progress on the second draft of my middle grade novel. I typically work for 60-90 minutes and that’s enough to keep me (mostly) centered for the rest of the day. That routine and commitment to my creativity keep me afloat, although some days I look and feel like this disheveled Northern Shoveler.

Lake Hasty. April 2, 2024

As Ray Bradbury said, You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

Palestinian poetry and artwork

/ Tracy Abell / 4 Comments

The following poem by Palestinian-American Fady Joudah and artwork by children’s book illustrator Sohila Khaled come from the recently published Poems for Palestine which was created by Publishers for Palestine. They’ve provided a PDF of the chapbook and we are encouraged to share the work widely. (click to enlarge images)

 

I also wanted to share this TIME article (by Armani Syed)  from early January: How Poetry Became a Tool of Resistance for Palestinians which ends with this from  George Abraham, a Palestinian-American poet: “. . . it’s imperative that poetry is just one tool in the process for Palestinian liberation and resistance against ethnic cleansing. 

“Poetry can’t stop a bullet. Poetry won’t free a prisoner. And that’s why we need to do the political organizing work as well,” they say. “But if we can’t imagine a free liberated world in language, how can we build one?”

Free Palestine!

Nature’s refuge

/ Tracy Abell / 10 Comments

I’m in the final stretch of revisions before sending the middle-grade manuscript back to my agent so the book can go on submission in the new year. The work feels both like a blessing and a curse. I’m grateful to be able to focus on something besides the horrific reality of our government’s complicity in the genocide in Gaza, but also sometimes feel selfish for escaping reality. Deep inside, I know that’s silly, and not only because the story I’m revising focuses on righting societal wrongs.

I also realize it’s silly to begrudge myself my creative outlet because we all need a refuge, whether it’s via the art we create or connection to the natural world.

July 20, 2023

In that spirit, I’m offering this Painted Lady on a sunflower. I photographed this in July and gazing upon their interconnectedness replenished my spirit as soon as I found it in my files. Maybe this image will do the same for you.

“On Why We Still Hold Onto Our Phones and Keep Recording” by Asmaa Abu Mezied

/ Tracy Abell / 3 Comments

This essay is from Light in Gaza: Writings Born of Fire (August 2022) which is available as a free ebook from Haymarket Books. As the U.S. continues to fund and supply bombs for Israel’s genocidal campaign and as the corporate media continues to portray Palestinians as non-persons (even as Israel targets Palestinian journalists for assassination), the images captured by Palestinian civilians often provide the only window into their horrific reality.

Here, though, from Asmaa Abu Mezied, is a powerful explanation for the intent behind those photos and videos.

On Why We Still Hold Onto Our Phones and Keep Recording by Asmaa Abu Mezied

Why would someone running from falling Israeli missiles or huddled together with their family next to the rubble of a neighbor’s destroyed home, surrounded by artillerty shelling, be holding their phones to record the horror around them? (I have often seen these questions on social media, which displays an utter disregard for Palestinian suffering.)

I am writing this for us, not for them.

We hold onto our phones for dear life because we have learned the hard way that documenting what we are going through is very important to ensure that our narrative remains alive and remains ours. Our stories, our struggle and pain, and the atrocities committed against us for more than seven decades are being erased. The Israeli journalist Hagar Shezaf explained how Israeli Defense Ministry teams systematically removed historic documents from Israeli archives, which describe the killing of Palestinians, the demolition of their villages and the expulsion of entire Palestinian communities. (1) This is part of Israel’s attempt to constantly rewrite history in its favor. So, we hold tight to our phones and record.

We record to resist the labeling of our people as unworthy, if not inhuman, by the so-called “objective” Western media, which can barely say our names and tell our stories. We are always portrayed as terrorists, violent people–or as numbers, abstract and formless. We are repeatedly asked to prove our humanity so media channels can give us a few seconds of airtime.

So, we record to document not for their sake but for ours. We have been systematically brainwashed by the media to apologize for demanding justice. There is no gray area in calls for freedom or equality.

We hold onto our phones and leave the camera rolling, recording our tears, our screams at losing our fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and children, our anguish, our attempts to run for our lives, our crippling fears, our powerlessness to calm our children when our houses shake with the deafening sound of death delivered by F-35 missiles sent with love by the US government.

We hold onto that phone and leave the camera rolling to preserve our tormented calls to our mothers to stay alive under the rubble of our destroyed homes, our voices crying goodbye to our loved ones at their graves, trying to sound strong but failing, betrayed by our trembling lips and tear-filled eyes.

We must record our prayers to survive, our children’s joy when they find their toys intact and their pets alive. We record our strength and our vulnerability, our disappointment in our leadership, and our rage at the silence of the world. We record the smoke, the blood, the lost homes, the olive trees targeted, and livelihoods stolen. We record how much we aged and how much we continue to love life even though life doesn’t love us back.

We record for future generations, to tell them this is what truly happened. That we stood here, demanded our rights, fought for them, and were annihilated. We record not to humanize ourselves for others, but so that future generations will remember who we were and what we did . . . to warn them against all attempts at erasing our existence.

We record our plea for humanity’s help to end this horror, which is more than our cameras can bear.

————————————————–

(1) Hagar Shezaf, “Burying the Nakba: How Israel Systematically Hides Evidence of 1948 Expulsion of Arabs,” Haaretz, July 5, 2019.

Refaat Alareer: rest in power and peace

/ Tracy Abell / 7 Comments

Today I learned that Dr. Refaat Alareer, along with his brother, sister, and her four children, were targeted and murdered in an Israeli airstrike. Refaat was a translator, academic, and writer who also reported on life in Gaza. These last two months I got to “know” him on Twitter/X as he shared specific details of the violence and horrors inflicted upon Gazans. Despite the death and destruction, he was funny and hopeful. He struck me as a human being comfortable in his own skin.

At the end of October, I posted a glimpse into LIGHT IN GAZA, an anthology of Palestinian writers and artists sharing their lived experiences under military occupation. But it wasn’t until today that I made the connection that the Refaat from social media was the same man with an essay in LIGHT IN GAZA. Refaat wrote “Gaza Asks: When Shall This Pass?” (Note: You may download the anthology for free from Haymarket Books). I highly recommend reading the entire piece yourself in order to better understand the gift that Refaat was to this world.

In “Gaza Asks,” he shared memories of the random violence he experienced over the years, along with that of friends and family members, and how in each instance they comforted themselves with “It shall pass.” When Refaat was older, teaching world literature and creative writing at the Islamic University in Gaza (IUG), he told stories to his three children to distract them from the twenty-three-day onslaught by Israel’s military (Operation Cast Lead). He told stories as bombs and missiles exploded in the background. Refaat wrote “As a Palestinian, I have been brought up on stories and storytelling. It’s both selfish and treacherous to keep a story to yourself–stories are meant to be told and retold. If I kept a story to myself, I would be betraying my legacy, my mother, my grandmother, and my homeland.”  He went on to say “Telling stories was my way of resisting. It was all I could do. And it was then I decided that if I lived, I would dedicate much of my life to telling the stories of Palestine, empowering Palestinian narratives, and nurturing younger voices.” 

When that particular onslaught ended, Refaat returned to the classroom where he told his students “Writing is a testimony, a memory that outlives any human experience, and an obligation to communicate with ourselves and the world. We lived for a reason, to tell the tales of loss, of survival, and of hope.” He began assigning and training his students to write short stories based on their realities. Those stories were collected and edited by Refaat and published as GAZA WRITES BACK.

But that wasn’t all Refaat did in the classroom. As so succinctly expressed by his friend Dan Cohen, Refaat “used English-language literature and poetry to teach his students the difference between Judaism and Zionism, equipping them with the mental tools to resist Zionist propaganda that seeks to conflate the two.” You can read more about those classroom experiences in “Gaza Asks.”

Later in the essay, in regards to Israel later destroying the administration building at IUG, Refaat wrote “. . . to me, IUG’s only danger to the Israeli occupation and its apartheid regime is that it is the most important place in Gaza to develop students’ minds as indestructible weapons. Knowledge is Israel’s worst enemy. Awareness is Israel’s most hated and feared foe. That’s why Israel bombs a university: it wants to kill openness and determination to refuse living under injustice and racism.”

I’ll stop there because I can’t do justice to the eloquence of Refaat’s essay, and I hope you’ll forgive me for already revealing so much. It’s just that this entire essay touched my heart and I felt compelled to share.

I do want to highlight this poem that follows his essay in LIGHT IN GAZA. Refaat also posted the poem on his Instagram account one week ago:

I’ll end with this poem he’d pinned at the top of his Twitter/X account on November 1: “If I must die, let it be a tale.”

Rest in power and peace, Dr. Refaat Alareer.

Palestinian poetry, part 2

/ Tracy Abell / 5 Comments

Running Orders
By Lena Khalaf Tuffaha

They call us now,
before they drop the bombs.
The phone rings
and someone who knows my first name
calls and says in perfect Arabic
“This is David.”
And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass-shattering symphonies
still smashing around in my head
I think, Do I know any Davids in Gaza?
They call us now to say
Run.
You have 58 seconds from the end of this message.
Your house is next.
They think of it as some kind of
war-time courtesy.
It doesn’t matter that
there is nowhere to run to.
It means nothing that the borders are closed
and your papers are worthless
and mark you only for a life sentence
in this prison by the sea
and the alleyways are narrow
and there are more human lives
packed one against the other
more than any other place on earth
Just run.
We aren’t trying to kill you.
It doesn’t matter that
you can’t call us back to tell us
the people we claim to want aren’t in your house
that there’s no one here
except you and your children
who were cheering for Argentina
sharing the last loaf of bread for this week
counting candles left in case the power goes out.
It doesn’t matter that you have children.
You live in the wrong place
and now is your chance to run
to nowhere.
It doesn’t matter
that 58 seconds isn’t long enough
to find your wedding album
or your son’s favorite blanket
or your daughter’s almost completed college application
or your shoes
or to gather everyone in the house.
It doesn’t matter what you had planned.
It doesn’t matter who you are.
Prove you’re human.
Prove you stand on two legs.
Run.
Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, “Running Orders” from Water & Salt.  Copyright © 2017 by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha. 
___________________________________________________________

Blood
By Naomi Shihab Nye

“A true Arab knows how to catch a fly in his hands,”
my father would say. And he’d prove it,
cupping the buzzer instantly
while the host with the swatter stared.
In the spring our palms peeled like snakes.
True Arabs believed watermelon could heal fifty ways.
I changed these to fit the occasion.
Years before, a girl knocked,
wanted to see the Arab.
I said we didn’t have one.
After that, my father told me who he was,
“Shihab”—“shooting star”—
a good name, borrowed from the sky.
Once I said, “When we die, we give it back?”
He said that’s what a true Arab would say.
Today the headlines clot in my blood.
A little Palestinian dangles a truck on the front page.
Homeless fig, this tragedy with a terrible root
is too big for us. What flag can we wave?
I wave the flag of stone and seed,
table mat stitched in blue.
I call my father, we talk around the news.
It is too much for him,
neither of his two languages can reach it.
I drive into the country to find sheep, cows,
to plead with the air:
Who calls anyone civilized?
Where can the crying heart graze?
What does a true Arab do now?
Naomi Shihab Nye, “Blood” from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems (Portland, Oregon: Far Corner Books, 1995). Copyright © 1995 by Naomi Shihab Nye.

Palestinian poetry

/ Tracy Abell / 9 Comments

In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political
I must listen to the birds
and in order to hear the birds
the warplanes must be silent.
 – Marwan Makhoul, Palestinian Poet

Image by Amy Spielmaker from Pixabay

(The following note and poem by Mosab Abu Toha were published in The Atlantic on November 9, 2023):

I wrote this poem last year, reflecting on my childhood under Israeli military occupation. I’m now staying in Jabalia, a United Nations refugee camp, with my wife and three kids. I’m reading this poem to myself and wondering if my children will be able to write poems about the bombs and explosions they are seeing. I was 8 the first time I witnessed a rocket. Now my youngest child, born in America in May 2021, is living through the third wave of Israeli bombing. Not only are he and his older brother and sister smelling death around them; but they have also lost their house in Beit Lahia 10 days ago. Luckily no one was at home. My son Yazzan, who is 8 years old, asks me, “Are our toys still alive?”

YOUNGER THAN WAR
Tanks roll through dust, through eggplant fields.
Beds unmade, lightening in the sky, brother
jumps to the window to watch warplanes
flying through clouds of smoke
after air strikes. Warplanes that look like eagles
searching for a tree branch to perch on,
catch breath, but these metal eagles
are catching souls in a blood/bone soup bowl.
No need for radio.
We are the news.
Ants’ ears hurt with each bullet
fired from wrathful machine guns.
Soldiers advance, burn books, some smoke
rolled sheets of yesterday’s newspaper, just like they did
when they were kids. Our kids
hide in the basement, backs against concrete pillars,
heads between knees, parents silent.
Humid down there, and heat of burning bombs
adds up to the slow death
of survival.
In September 2000, after I had bought bread for dinner,
I saw a helicopter firing a rocket
into a tower as far from me as my frightful cries
when I heard concrete and glass fall from high.
Loaves of bread went stale.
I was still 7 at the time.
I was decades younger than war,
a few years older than bombs.

Mosab Abu Toha is a Palestinian poet, short story writer, and essayist from Gaza. His collection Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award and won a Derek Walcott Poetry Prize and an American Book Award.

From the Sky
by Sara Abou Rashed

After Lorca

When I die,
bury me in the sky—
no one is fighting over it.

Children are playing soccer
with empty bomb shells
(from the sky I can see them).
A grandmother is baking
her Eid makroota and mamoul
(from the sky I can taste them).
Teens are writing love letters
under an orange tree
(from the sky I can read them).
Soldiers are cocking new rifles
at the checkpoint
(from the sky I can hear them).
Under fire, death and water
are brewing in the kitchen
(from the sky I can smell them!).
When I die, bury me in the sky,
I said, for now, it is quiet—
no one owns it and no one is claiming to.