"Under The Rubble," by Mosab Abu Toha The New Yorker

Poems
Under the Rubble

By Mosab Abu Toha
September 30, 2024
Save this story
She slept on her bed,

never woke up again.
Her bed has become her grave,
a tomb beneath the ceiling of her
room,
the ceiling a cenotaph.
No name, no year of birth,
no year of death, no epitaph.
Only blood and a smashed
picture frame in ruin
next to her.
In Jabalia camp, a mother collects her

daughter’s
"esh in a piggy bank,
hoping to buy her a plot
on a river in a faraway land.
A group of mute people

were talking sign.
When a bomb fell,
they fell silent.
It rained again last night.

The new plant looked for
an umbrella in the garage.
The bombing got intense
and our house looked for
a shelter in the neighborhood.
I leave the door to my room open, so

the words in my books,
the titles, and names of authors and
publishers,
could "ee when they hear the bombs.
I became homeless once but

the rubble of my city
covered the streets.
They could not #nd a stretcher

to carry your body. They put
you on a wooden door they found
under the rubble:
Your neighbors: a moving wall.
The scars on our children’s faces

will look for you.
Our children’s amputated legs
will run after you.
He left the house to buy some bread

for his kids.
News of his death made it home,
but not the bread.
No bread.
Death sits to eat whoever remains of
the kids.
No need for a table, no need for bread.
A father wakes up at night, sees

the random colors on the walls
drawn by his four-year-old daughter.
The colors are about four feet high.

Next year, they would be #ve.
But the painter has died
in an air strike.
There are no colors anymore.

There are no walls.
I changed the order of my books on

the shelves.
Two days later, the war broke out.
Beware of changing the order of your
books!
What are you thinking?

What thinking?
What you?
You?
Is there still you?
You there?
Where should people go? Should they

build a big ladder and go up?
But heaven has been blocked by the

drones
and F-16s and the smoke of death.
My son asks me whether,

when we return to Gaza,
I could get him a puppy.
I say, “I promise, if we can #nd any.”
I ask my son if he wishes to become

a pilot when he grows up.
He says he won’t wish
to drop bombs on people and houses.
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.
This is drawn from “Forest of Noise.”
Published in the print edition of the

October 7, 2024, issue, with the headline
“Under the Rubble.”
Mosab Abu Toha is a poet from Gaza. He

is the author of “Things You May Find
Hidden in My Ear” and “Forest of Noise.”
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Poems

Under the Rubble

Save this story

She slept on her bed,

In Jabalia camp, a mother collects her

A group of mute people

It rained again last night.

I leave the door to my room open, so

I became homeless once but

They could not #nd a stretcher

Your neighbors: a moving wall.

The scars on our children’s faces

He left the house to buy some bread

A father wakes up at night, sees

The colors are about four feet high.

There are no colors anymore.

I changed the order of my books on

What are you thinking?

Where should people go? Should they

But heaven has been blocked by the

My son asks me whether,

I ask my son if he wishes to become

When we die, our souls leave our

This is drawn from “Forest of Noise.”

Published in the print edition of the

Mosab Abu Toha is a poet from Gaza. He

The Weekend Essay

The Pain of Travelling While

“Stories About Us”

Books & Culture Video

Fiction & Poetry Podcasts

Humor & Cartoons Archive

Customer Care Digital Access

Shop The New Yorker Newsletters

Buy Covers and Jigsaw Puzzle

Careers Accessibility Help

Contact User Agreement

F.A.Q. Privacy Policy

Media Kit Your California Privacy

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