Forest of Noise | Mosab Abu Toha | Poetry of Gaza

Forest of Noise (2024) by Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha is a haunting and powerful collection that chronicles life in Gaza through raw, lyrical, and deeply human verses. Written under the relentless onslaught of bombardments and displacement, these poems transform unbearable pain into words that demand the world’s attention. The Pulitzer Prize winning poet captures both the destruction of daily life and the fragile moments of tenderness that survive amidst the ruins.

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“Every house is my heart, every hole in the earth is my wound,” Abu Toha writes, summing up the grief of a land where survival itself has become an act of resistance. In Forest of Noise, he juxtaposes daily horrors with memories of peace, sharpening the contrast between loss and hope. As he declares in the opening poem Younger than War, “No need for radio: / we are the news,” reminding us that every line is both personal testimony and historical record of a tragedy that spans generations. In just two lines, Mosab Abu Toha captures the essence of life in Gaza, where every family becomes part of the headlines. In his book, this poem shows how survival, tragedy, and resilience define daily existence. The phrase is powerful because it transforms ordinary people into the living record of war.

Mosab Abu Toha transforms daily life in Gaza into verses that are at once intimate and universal. The book blends survival with memory and poems that read like quiet instructions on what to do during an air raid, alongside tender images of his wife singing to comfort their children in the dark. In other moments, the poet recalls the taste of his grandfather’s oranges or the joy on his daughter’s face as she eats them, anchoring fleeting moments of sweetness against the backdrop of destruction. At its heart, Forest of Noise is not just Gaza poetry, but a living testimony of family, resilience, and remembrance. Through these poems, Abu Toha introduces readers to loved ones who remain, and to those who exist now only in memory, making this Palestinian poetry about the Gaza war both a personal chronicle and a universal call for empathy.

One striking example is the poem What A Gazan Should Do During an Airstrike, where Abu Toha turns lived terror into verse:

“Turn off the lights in every room / sit in the inner hallway of the house / away from the windows … get a child’s kindergarten backpack and stuff / tiny toys and whatever amount of money there is / and the ID cards / and photos of late grandparents …”

Here, survival instructions are transformed into poetry, merging the ordinary with the unbearable, while holding tightly to memory and family.

What makes Forest of Noise unforgettable is its ability to turn suffering into timeless poetry. Through vivid storytelling and haunting metaphors, Abu Toha ensures that voices from Gaza are heard beyond borders. This is not only a book of poems but also a work of witness, one that reminds us of the enduring strength of human spirit even in the darkest times.

Haunting, horrific, yet beautifully expressed, Forest of Noise demonstrates the growth of Mosab Abu Toha not only as a poet but also as a voice for the voiceless. His work carries the echoes of rubble, memory, and resilience, giving language to suffering while refusing to let it be silenced. This 2024 collection is more than poetry, it is a living document of struggle, resilience, and the unbroken spirit of Gaza.

Book Details and Availability

Forest of Noise: New Poems of Hope and Resilience by Pulitzer Prize winning Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha was published on 30 November 2024 by HarperCollins Publishers. The book is written in English and has 96 pages. It is available in multiple formats; Kindle edition priced at around ₹361, paperback at about ₹1181, and hardcover for ₹380, while the audiobook version is free. Readers can buy the book from major platforms like Amazon, Flipkart, HarperCollins official store, Goodreads and other leading online bookstores.

About the Author of Forest of Noise

Mosab Abu Toha (born 1992 in Al-Shati refugee camp, Gaza) is a poet, essayist, and cultural voice from Palestine whose words reflect both resilience and loss. He studied English literature at the Islamic University of Gaza and later earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Syracuse University. His debut poetry collection, Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear (2022), received worldwide recognition, winning the Palestine Book Award, the American Book Award, and being shortlisted for several international prizes.

Beyond writing, he is the founder of the Edward Said Library, the first English-language public library in Gaza, created as a space of learning and hope amid turmoil. He has been a visiting poet at Harvard University and his works have appeared in leading publications including The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Poetry Magazine, and The Nation.

During the 2023 war in Gaza, he and his family were displaced, and his temporary detention while fleeing drew global attention. Despite these struggles, he continued to write, documenting the lived experiences of his people through powerful essays and poems. In 2025, he was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Commentary for his Letter from Gaza essays in The New Yorker, praised for combining emotional truth with sharp reporting.

Today, living between the US and Palestine, Abu Toha continues to give voice to the silenced, blending memory, history, and poetry to preserve Gaza’s cultural spirit and human stories.

Poems that Carry a Nation’s Grief: Forest of Noise

Much of the purpose behind these poems in Forest of Noise is to make sense of unbearable realities. In an interview with PBS News Hour, the poet shared that he turns to poetry because his experiences are “more than language can express,” and writing becomes his only escape. These verses reflect a life scarred by war and he was kidnapped by IDF forces and detained in November 2023, yet such horrors have followed him since childhood. As he told NPR, his “losses started the day I was born” as a Palestinian refugee: he lost 31 family members, was wounded in a 2009 airstrike at just 16, saw his home destroyed, and lost more than 300 friends. This heavy burden of survival runs through his work, turning Gaza poetry into a powerful testimony of trauma, resilience, and the ongoing struggle for dignity amidst loss.

My Son Throws a Blanket over My Daughter
Gaza, May 2021

At night, at home, we sit on the floor,
listening to bombs and ambulances,
until we hear the whir of an F-16,
then we run to the inner hallway.
My son takes a blanket and pulls it over his sister.
She resists. Once her head is inside,
she says, “It’s too hot in here.”
He says, “I want you to die with me
when a bomb falls on us.”

The walls tremble; our hearts beat wildly.
The earth shakes; we shake.
We carry them in our arms
from one corner to another.
Sirens pierce the air,
smoke fills the room.
The children cough, their lips turn pale.
Their eyes bulge in terror,
their small hands tremble.

Every time we hear bombs,
the children scream.
Every time we hear an F-16,
they shiver.
Every time we hear ambulances,
we cry,
hugging our children hard,
as if our arms
could keep them safe.

This heartbreaking poem shows how everyday life in Gaza is filled with fear and the struggle to survive. It describes one terrifying night when children hide from bombs, and a son pulls a blanket over his sister. The act is both loving and painful as he wants to protect her, but also fears they may not survive. The trembling walls, the roar of F-16s, and the children’s cries capture the reality of war in the most personal way.

Through these verses, the Forest of Noise poetry collection 2024 turns moments of trauma into powerful poetry. Unlike news headlines that only show numbers, this Gaza poetry gives us the emotions of family’s fear, tenderness, and the helplessness of parents trying to shield their children. Each line shows that Palestinian poetry about the Gaza war is not just about destruction, but also about love and the fragile hope that survives even in the darkest times.

We Are Looking For Palestine

‘Sir, we are not welcome anywhere.
Only cemeteries don’t mind our bodies.

We no longer look for Palestine.
Our time is spent dying.
Soon, Palestine will search for us,
For our whispers, for our footsteps,
Our fading pictures fallen off blown-up walls.’

This poem captures the deep sorrow of displacement and loss. It shows how Palestinians feel unwanted everywhere, with cemeteries becoming the only place that accepts them. Daily life is described as a struggle against death, where even the search for home is replaced by survival. The verses in Forest of Noise suggest that one day the land itself will seek the memories, voices, and footsteps of its people. It is a haunting reflection of Gaza poetry that speaks of war, exile, and fading identities.

My Library

My books remain on the shelves as I left them last year,
but all the words have died.
I search for my favorite book
Out of Place.
I find it lying lonely in a drawer,
next to the photo album and my old Nokia phone.

The pen inside the book is still intact,
but some ink drops have leaked.
Some words breathe its ink,
the pen like a ventilator
for a dozen patients:

Home, Jerusalem, the sea, Haifa,
The rock, the oranges, the sand,
The pigeon, Cairo, my mother,
Beirut, books, the rock, the sea, the sea.

This poem shows the destruction of Gaza’s libraries, including the Edward Said Library that Abu Toha founded. The image of books and pens as patients struggling to breathe reflects how war destroys not just lives but also knowledge and culture. Through his words in Forest of Noise, he preserves memories of Jerusalem, Haifa, Cairo, and Yaffa, turning poetry into resistance and a monument to what was lost.

Love Poem

carry our home, our destroyed home
with you in your memories

your hand holding the pencil with me when my fingers freeze out of fear,
your name,
which reminds me there is a goal.

This love poem shows how even affection in Gaza is tied to loss and destruction. Holding on to his wife’s memory and strength becomes a way to survive fear. Love here is resistance, proving that even in war people continue to dream of a home. The poem in Forest of Noise captures the power of Palestinian love poetry in the middle of destruction.

My Dreams as a Child

running for miles and miles
no unexploded bombs
scaring me off

my grandfather died,
Yaffa is occupied,
and oranges
no longer grow
in his weeping groves.

This poem reflects the innocence of childhood dreams, where safety and play were once possible. The image of oranges in Yaffa groves connects memory with land, but by the end the dream collapses into grief and his grandfather is gone, Yaffa remains occupied, and the groves no longer bear fruit. It is a heartbreaking picture of Palestinian displacement and loss of homeland.

Grandfather’s Well

In the refugee camp,
Where land is strewn with
Debris, where air chokes with rage,
My harvest is yet to arrive,
My seeds only sprout on this page.

Here the poet writes about life in a refugee camp, where destruction and rage replace harvest and growth. Only his words can bear fruit, showing how poetry becomes the seed of survival. This makes Forest of Noise both a personal testimony and an act of resistance literature.

This is not a poem.
This is a grave, not
beneath the soil of Homeland,
but above a flat, light white
rag of paper.

The final poem is a haunting reminder that poetry itself can feel like a graveyard of memories. With lives lost and homes destroyed, the poet fears his words may only serve as silent tombstones if the violence does not end. This transforms his writing into poetry to record the suffering in Gaza that the world must not ignore.

‘When we die, our souls leave our bodies,
take with them everything they loved
in our bedrooms: the perfume bottles,
the makeup, the necklaces, and the pens.
In Gaza, our bodies and rooms get crushed.
Nothing remains for the soul.
Even our souls,
they get stuck under the rubble for weeks.’

These lines summarize the deep sorrow of war in Gaza. Even the soul, which should be free after death, is imagined as trapped under rubble. It is one of the most powerful examples of Palestinian war poetry, where personal grief turns into a universal cry for humanity.

Her dreams,
she threw them onto the closest sea wave
and that wave
never returned

This poem shows how dreams are lost forever in exile and war. The image of the sea wave carrying them away reflects the pain of Palestinian displacement and the hopelessness of return.

We stuff our suitcases with pictures and memories.
They feel very heavy on the ground;
we can’t carry them, neither can the roads.
They scar the surface of the earth.

Here memories become too heavy to carry, showing how war forces people to pack their entire lives into bags. The scars left behind mirror the wounds of refugees and forced migration.

In my ears, I’m hiding
my mother’s stories,
my father’s recitation
of the Holy Quran when I am sick,
the sound of my childhood alarm clock ringing
when I open my eyes for school.

This poem shows how even in war, people hold onto the sounds of family and childhood. These small memories are acts of survival, protecting identity in the middle of destruction.

“There is a dog giving birth to seven puppies

beneath a white mulberry tree under the clear night sky
The dog groans with pain,
puppy after puppy cries, unaware where they are.

For them, it’s still dark, whether in her belly or outside.
What country are we in?
That’s not a question for a puppy to ask.

Only mother dog and the soil beneath can hear
the branch of the mulberry tree —
for every moan
a blossom comes out.

From her bedroom window, a mother, still awake,
watches the dog, its puppies, and the mulberry trees,
while her child, eyes closed, suckles from her breast.

And the drone watches all.”

This powerful poem contrasts birth and destruction. While a dog gives life under the mulberry tree, a drone watches from above, symbolizing surveillance and war. It reflects the fragile coexistence of life, nature, and war in Gaza.

In the refugee camp,
where land is strewn with
debris, where air chokes with rage,
my harvest is yet to arrive,
my seeds only sprout on this page.
— “My Grandfather’s Well”

This piece shows that in refugee camps, nothing grows except words. Poetry itself becomes the harvest, keeping memory alive while land remains destroyed.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed in a tent,
looking for water and diapers for kids;
destroyed by bombs;
a generation under the rubble
of their bombed houses;

I saw the best brains of my generation
protruding from their slashed heads.

This heartbreaking poem portrays the loss of an entire generation to bombs, displacement, and violence. Instead of building futures, young minds are buried under rubble, showing the cost of war on Palestinian youth.

“In Palestine, our dark is not safe.
In Palestine, children always cry.”

These lines show how even night offers no safety in Palestine. Children grow up in fear, crying under the constant threat of airstrikes, a reminder of everyday suffering.

“Angel of death,
When you collect the souls of those killed in an air strike, do you mind leaving a sign for us, so we know who is who?…”

This plea to the angel of death reveals the deep pain of families who cannot even recognize loved ones after bombings. It highlights the brutal reality of air strikes and loss in Gaza.

“This is not a poem.
This is a grave, not
beneath the soil of Homeland,
but above a flat, light white
rag of paper.”
— This Is Not a Poem

Here, poetry itself becomes a grave, a place where memories of homeland are buried on paper. It shows how writing transforms into both remembrance and mourning.

“Now it’s 2024, and the cemetery you were buried in was razed by Israeli bulldozers and tanks. How can I find you now?

Will my bones find yours after I die?”
— A Blank Postcard

This poem mourns the destruction of cemeteries, leaving no place even for the dead. It asks haunting questions about reunion after death, reflecting the erasure of history.

I leave the door to my room open, so the words in my books,
the titles, and names of authors and publishers,
could flee when they hear the bombs.
— Under the Rubble

This final poem imagines books and words fleeing from bombs, as if literature itself is alive and in danger. It is a striking symbol of how war silences culture, history, and voices.

Final Thoughts

Forest of Noise is not just a poetry collection but a testimony of survival, grief, and resilience. Mosab Abu Toha uses poetry as both witness and resistance, giving voice to silenced memories and fractured dreams. His verses capture the anguish of war, the innocence of childhood interrupted, and the relentless search for hope amid destruction. As the poet himself has said, “If you live in Gaza, you die several times.” This book ensures that each of those silent deaths is remembered, transformed into words that will not be forgotten. This collection is powerful, necessary, and unforgettable and a reminder that poetry is not only art, but also resistance, healing, and a record of humanity.