Yahia Lababidi | The PEN Ten Interview

By: Kori Davis | August 15, 2024

Distance isn’t afforded to the reader in Yahia Lababidi’s Palestine Wail (Daraja Press, 2024). These poems are an unflinching look at the pain and wounds afflicting the Palestinian diaspora caused by the Israel-Hamas war and the occupation of Palestine by the Israeli government. These poems aren’t meant to condemn but examine a broken time where we are indifferent to one another’s pain and fail to see how that pain affects us as a collective. It is only then that these poems begin to dress the wounds.

In conversation with PEN America Membership’s Kori Davis for this week’s PEN Ten, Yahia Lababidi shares his personal insights as an Arab-American of Palestinian background, the censorship he faced for using the term ‘genocide’ in Palestine Wail, and describes his philosophy on the interconnectedness of the human race (Barnes & Noble).

1. You refer to poets as ministers of loneliness. What about the poet makes them especially adept at tending to “moral injury or spiritual woundedness?”

I think of the poet as a mystic and a healer who is able to vacate him or herself, in order to embody the pain of others. In that sense, poets are spiritual journalists reporting to us on the condition of our collective soul, and our higher moral allegiances to one another.

2. There is a very striking simile in “The Exodus Continues,” one the earliest poems in this collection. Displaced Palestinians are “condemned as wandering Jews.” That particular parable comes from a Christian legend where a Jewish man mocks the crucifixion of Christ and is condemned to live a life of sorrow. In “Radical Love,” The dates of the Hamas attack (10/7), the Nakba (5/15), and 9/11 are also stacked atop one another. What was behind conflating these faith backgrounds and these dates?

It is an attempt to show our interconnectedness, across time and traditions. By association, I think of these sad lines from W.H. Auden’s “September 1, 1939”:

“I and the public know/ What all schoolchildren learn, / Those to whom evil is done/ Do evil in return.”

We take turns being the scapegoats of history. Victims, unfortunately, become victimizers and abusers. It is a perversity of human nature, that bullies seek to play the role of victims…

“When we refuse to acknowledge the suffering of others, and the role we play in it, we contribute to our own suffering, since we are One. The violence we commit throughout the world or allow to take place in our name is like a karmic serpent that will find its way home, to our doorstop.“

3. In the wake of the October 7 attack, there has been a lot of discourse around organizations calling (and not calling) for a ceasefire. However, the poem “Ceasefire” seems to cut through that discourse in about three lines. Why do you view the ceasefire as a spiritual issue and less of a political one?

I view all this narrow-hearted mess that we’re in as a spiritual disease. If we acknowledge that we belong to one another, we recognize that we suffer when we make others suffer. There is no Other. No lasting peace can be founded upon profound injustice. The jailer is never free. These are spiritual laws.

4. Apathy and indifference are weaponized in “The Limits of Love.” What was behind this conceit to render indifference as a “bullet” and what are the ramifications of this indifference?

Martin Luther King Jr. said it best in his Letter from the Birmingham Jail: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

5. These poems convey a lot of pain, but it’s to serve the idea of a “human family.” What do you think we as a collective gain from understanding each other’s wounds? How do you reconcile that while knowing there are those who refuse to acknowledge the Palestinians in Gaza and the trauma they are experiencing?

Again, when we refuse to acknowledge the suffering of others, and the role we play in it, we contribute to our own suffering, since we are One. The violence we commit throughout the world or allow to take place in our name is like a karmic serpent that will find its way home, to our doorstop.

“Faith is what sustains me. The incorruptible innocence of the human spirit and how it is indomitable, because it houses the Divine. I turn to this higher realm and higher court where we must all stand, before our conscience, to testify to how we are living.“

6. Poets and mystics–poetry and piety–feel inextricably linked in these poems. The poet is a prophet, the muezzin could be a poet, and reading is almost praying. Is there something about the context of the occupation of Palestine that made you hone in on this link between poetry and piety? If so, why?

I have come to view poetry as ministry and, of course, Palestine is sacred to Jews, Christians, and Muslims and in a sense the spiritual capital of Abrahamic religions. On a personal note, allow me to share the legend of my departed Palestinian grandmother’s family, the Dajanis, who acted as the official custodians of the Tomb of the Prophet David in Jerusalem (since 1529) when bloody riots repeatedly broke out between Christians and Jews over control of this site.

I find it remarkable that a Muslim family in Jerusalem, beginning with Sufi Sheikh Ahmed Dajani, were made the site’s hereditary guardians, custodians, and caretakers, and that position was held by our family until the end of the British Mandate in May 1948 when Israel seized the site.

According to legend: Sheikh Ahmad Shihab Din Dajani (1480–1562) a renowned Sufi leader had a waking vision. Al-Dajani saw the spirit of God’s messenger David pleading, “Save me, oh Ahmad, for my rescue will be at your hands.”

Sheikh Dajani understood that David’s tomb at Mount Zion was not well taken care of by the Christian monks, who were denying access to any other sect or faith.

Dajani leads a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and struggles to control David’s tomb. When bloody riots repeatedly break out between Christians and Jews over control of this site, the Ottoman Sultan Suleiman (ruled 1521–1566) issues a decree appointing Sheikh Ahmed Dajani and his family as the site’s hereditary guardians.

7. There is a horticultural element in some of these poems: “In the midst of a genocide/our Peace Lily began to bloom” opens “Peace, Lily.” In “For John,” a child collects a flower for their sister, and “Garden Meditation,” prompts us to “dig deeper/seeking the root — to eliminate/what is undesirable from returning.” Why are gardening and plant life such powerful respites for the subjects in these poems?

Thank you, for noticing this connection. Seeds are hope and we are plants in a sense, also connected to the soil. One of my aims through this book is to remind us of our sacred mission, amid the chaos, to remember what is indestructible… One way of doing this is by cultivating our gardens, honoring the sanctity of life in all forms, and beautifying our world not just for ourselves, but for future generations. There is a quote attributed to Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him): “If the Day of Judgement arrives while you are planting a new tree, continue to plant it.”

This emphasizes the importance of hope, perseverance, and the immortality of good deeds, even in the face of the end of the world.

8. So much of the writing process is extractive. The act of writing is extractive; dealing with publishing is extractive; and even observing and hearing about the war and occupation of Palestine is extractive. What were you able to turn to to replenish yourself and continue writing?

What a marvelous way of putting it. Faith is what sustains me. The incorruptible innocence of the human spirit and how it is indomitable, because it houses the Divine. I turn to this higher realm and higher court where we must all stand, before our conscience, to testify to how we are living. Our actions echo throughout eternity… Writing is a calling, in that sense, and throughout the past dreadful nine months I felt summoned to bear witness, speaking up for those who cannot as well as to those who will not listen.

For example, There is a gifted young Gazan poet and translator, in his twenties, Mohammed Abu Lebda, who reached out to me around the beginning of this year and kept in touch since. One day, on WhatsApp, he shared with me videos of the wreckage where he used to live. A bomb had demolished the home next to that of his family and they were all forced to flee. I could hardly breathe watching the videos, holding back tears. After listening to and seeing Mohammed’s pitiable circumstances, I felt that it was my responsibility to share his story with the world and show people the unimaginably high price of collective punishment that Palestinians must endure.

My friend, Mohammed, feared for his life from day to day, and like countless other innocent souls who lost their homes, was suffering from debilitating health issues, because of the inhumane circumstances: living without a good tent or private bathroom, given the shortage of medications. He emphasized to me that despite his repeated efforts to contact charities, the poor people who need aid rarely receive it.

9. So many of these poems advocate for surrendering: surrendering pain, surrendering distractions. Some of these seem nearly impossible. What is the purpose for this multifarious surrendering? What do you think people can gain by letting go?

Only so much is in our hands. I believe that we must try to do all that we can and then, with humility and reverence, bow to the work of the Invisible Hands. Surrendering is a recognition of our spiritual limitations and trust in a wisdom higher than we can fathom.

“As a global citizen, I consider it my duty to take corrupt governments and compromised media to task by reminding them of their Ideals.“

10. I wanted to allow some space to talk about the publication process for this collection. A lot of these poems are critical of governments. Did you face any pushback or censorship while getting this published? How conscious were you of the possibility of pushback while you were writing these poems?

I am really grateful for this space to speak about pushback and censorship. As an Egyptian and American I am a kind of involuntary activist and, frankly, critical of both my governments’ positions regarding Palestine. As a global citizen, I consider it my duty to take corrupt governments and compromised media to task by reminding them of their Ideals. Being Arab, naturally, I wish for greater solidarity with Palestinians and want us to do more to protect our brothers and sisters and stand up for them. As an American, of course, I feel painfully betrayed and alienated by the US government’s blind support of Israel and their ongoing military support of the genocide of Palestinians and their ethnic cleansing.

I regret to say that this bias, towards Zionism and Jewish suffering, extends to the publishing process where I experienced, directly, how they are part of larger machinery of violence. After 6 months of working closely with an editor I deeply admire (respected scholar and poet) my once enthusiastic US publisher lost their nerve and dropped my Palestine book for fear of offending.

In a two hour Zoom meeting, the publisher let me know that they were uneasy with my use of words like Genocide, even murder — as they felt that it was “prejudging a legal matter” — and they went so far as to suggest that if they were to publish my book, it would result in scandal for them and some of their authors would walk out.

Crestfallen, I had to move on… Mercifully, before too long and with the passionate assistance of many principled friends from around the world, I was able to find a less alarmist, more courageous publisher — lifelong Kenyan activist, Firoze Manji, whose Daraja Press is based in Canada — to carry Palestine Wail forth:

Palestine Wail: Poems – DarajaPress

My wish is that, despite the daily horrors, my book might be received as a work of peace & healing.

Yahia Lababidi, Arab-American of Palestinian background, is the author of 11 critically-acclaimed books of aphorisms, essays, poetry and conversations. Lababidi’s latest is Palestine Wail (Daraja Press, 2024) a love letter to Gaza, composed during the Genocide as well as Quarantine Notes (Fomite Press, 2023) short meditations reflecting on our global pandemic. Previous publications include: Desert Songs (Rowayat, 2022) a bilingual, photographic account of his desert retreats in Egypt; Learning to Pray (Kelsay Books, 2021) a collection of spiritual aphorisms and poems; as well as Revolutions of the Heart (Wipf & Stock, 2020) a mixed-genre compendium of his essays and conversations on crises and transformation.