Throughout history, poets have penned verses about the devastations of war, helping shape our collective memory. From Homer’s depictions of the Trojan War to Wilfred Owen’s mournful reflections on World War I, poetry has always provided a powerful lens into the horrors and human costs of conflict. There’s no denying that poets shed light on these atrocities, but can they also pave the way to peace?
One might argue that poetry holds the potential to bridge divides and encourage understanding, provided it reaches across enemy lines. The recent conflict in the Middle East has showcased both the powerful impact and the challenges of engaging with poetry from the “other side.”
Believing in the transformative power of poetry might seem overly optimistic, but history gives us hope. Poets like Robert Bly and Denise Levertov played roles in changing social perspectives during the Vietnam War. More recently, the emergence of marginalized voices has highlighted systemic racial issues in the U.S. Lucille Clifton’s poignant “jasper texas 1998” captures the brutal murder of James Byrd Jr., and Ross Gay’s “A Small Needful Fact” sheds light on the tragic death of Eric Garner.
In the ongoing conflict between Israel and Hamas, it is crucial to listen to Palestinian poets like Mosab Abu Toha and Fady Joudah. Their words offer a perspective that news channels often fail to capture—bringing the reality of Gaza alive in a unique and poignant way.
I urge those unfamiliar with contemporary Palestinian poetry to explore these voices. By doing so, you encounter not just the agony and rage of war but also a shared humanity beneath it all. For instance, Abu Toha’s poem “My Grandfather’s Well” beautifully juxtaposes his act of drawing water from a camp with memories of his grandfather. This connection, across time and space, fosters empathy between those separated by conflict.
So it feels troubling to witness thousands in the arts and entertainment industry signing up to boycott Israeli cultural institutions. It seems a decision to remain ignorant of what could be learned from engaging with the art of the “enemy.”
This echoes an op-ed I read recently about a prevailing sense of unease amongst Jewish authors in publishing. The reference to lists of “Zionist” authors to be ostracized reminded me of historical purges like the McCarthy era or Nazi book burnings. What fear keeps these individuals from engaging with Israeli and Jewish perspectives?
My forthcoming book began with a working title, “My Partisan Grief,” inspired by the limited interest I noticed in Jewish narratives of suffering. Grief, regardless of its origins, should never be ignored.
Achieving true peace requires us to reckon with the grief and anger of those perceived as “other.” If artists and poets can’t initiate this dialogue, how can we expect politicians to succeed? Opening ourselves to the pain and rage of others is essential to healing deep-rooted divisions.
To those steadfastly boycotting Israeli voices, I suggest reading some poems from “Shiva: Poems of October 7,” which offer deep reflections on the cost of conflict. For instance, Shuri Haza writes about the void left by loss, and Eva Murciano’s words capture the paralysis of trying to express pain in poetry.
We all find ourselves struggling on this same fractured ground—Palestinians, Israelis, Jews alike. I invite you to explore Yonatan Berg’s “Frayed Light,” particularly the poem “After the War.” His lines about the land’s return after betrayal resonate deeply, highlighting a collective failure to nurture peace.
Choosing not to engage with these perspectives, simply because they are Israeli, is itself a betrayal of the potential for understanding. Artists thrive on curiosity, and self-imposed censorship stifles this vital impulse.
Alongside my own work, I ask those who backed the boycott to listen to the narrative of an American Jew with ties to Israel, one who yearns for universal freedom and stability throughout the Middle East.
In what some might call naivety, I argue for openness through poetry. Let’s dive into the words of all poets, no matter how uncomfortable. In doing so, perhaps we might find answers. Can we let the poets speak? Let them all speak.
Owen Lewis, a professor at Columbia University’s medical humanities and ethics department, is set to release a poetry collection titled “A Prayer of Six Wings.”
