In August, at least 20 people were killed in an Israeli attack on Nasser Hospital in southern Gaza. According to MSNBC, Israel struck the hospital at least four times, killing journalists, health workers, and emergency response personnel, many of whom were responding to the initial round of bombings. The Israel Defense Forces released a statement in the aftermath claiming to have identified a camera on the roof of the hospital that was allegedly being used by Hamas to monitor the IDF. The attack was an act of pure malice, likely a war crime, and by now, an event which has become almost routine for the people of Palestine.
For those watching from the outside, it’s impossible to comprehend the sheer scope of what is happening in Gaza. Aside from the rampant and indiscriminate killing of civilians, over half a million people are currently starving from a man-made famine that is a direct result of IDF restrictions and insufficient food distribution by American-led organizers.
On Sept. 16, Israel launched its full-scale ground invasion of Gaza City. The Associated Press estimates that there are still thousands of Palestinians living in and around the targeted area. American evangelicals have been determined to downplay these horrors and shield Israel from criticism, even as the death toll continues to mount. These events are so jarring, and they hit so quickly, that they become a sort of white noise—a discordant frequency that deafens our minds and numbs our hearts.
In moments like these, it can feel almost insulting to bring up poetry. What good are poems in the face of desolation, terror, and death? However, sometimes a simple line of poetry can silence the inane clamor of political think pieces and performative punditry. Sometimes, poetry helps us remember our shared humanity.
Forest of Noise, by the Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha, does exactly this by giving readers a searing glimpse into the lives of the Palestinian people. Using language that is clear, artful, and precise, Abu Toha—who won a Pulitzer Prize in 2025 for commentary on the Gaza war—expertly conveys the shared loss and longing of a people struggling to live amid an onslaught of death.
But for Christians in the West, Forest of Noise is a direct confrontation. Its poems cut through our shallow excuses and demand an answer to an uncomfortable question: How can you claim that all people are made in the image of God and then allow that image to be buried under the rubble?
On Your Knees
Arguably, the most intense poem found in Forest of Noise is “On Your Knees” which Abu Toha composed after he was held hostage by the Israeli military in 2023 while trying to flee to Egypt with his family. Throughout the piece, readers are subjected to a relentless refrain of the command, “On Your Knees!” while Abu Toha is stripped—both literally and metaphorically—of his humanity. Each new humiliation is punctuated by those three words in bolded text. Abu Toha is eventually freed, but it’s with an air of casual indifference. His suffering, like that of most Palestinians, is treated as standard procedure.
In “A Blank Postcard,” Abu Toha mourns the death of his brother and then mourns the fact that he cannot visit his gravesite due to Israeli encroachment; grief compounded by grief.
“Now it’s 2024, and the cemetery you were buried in was razed by Israeli bulldozers and tanks. How can I find you now?” he wonders, “Will my bones find yours after I die?”
READ MORE: There Can Be No Peace Without Freedom for Palestinians
Then there is the reserved but no less impactful poem “Mothers and Mulberry Tree,” in which Abu Toha disarms the reader with peaceful images of childbirth and motherhood before stabbing his audience with a final, chilling sentence: “And the drone watches over all.”
For the people of Palestine, even moments of beauty carry the threat of death and indignity.
A Request
After reading Forest of Noise, it becomes apparent why Abu Toha’s public appearances are often marked by moments of sorrow and anger. In one MSNBC interview following his Pulitzer win, Abu Toha fell into a tense back-and-forth with journalist Catherine Rampell when she pointed to some of his social media posts and suggested he was questioning the status of Israeli hostages taken by Hamas.
“I’ve never denied anyone’s suffering,” Abu Toha remarked sharply, “I know that everyone is suffering, Israelis and Palestinians, but why are our sufferings not acknowledged? Why are we called terrorists? Why are we called prisoners of war while the Israelis who were kidnapped from Israel are named hostages? Does this give them more humanity, because they are Israeli, while my loved ones are being named prisoners and they are tortured?”
Why indeed.
Conservative evangelicals have argued that Christians should sympathize with the people of Gaza while emphasizing that there is no moral equivalence between Israel and Hamas.
However, just because Christians should rightly condemn Hamas for the murder and torture of innocent civilians does not mean the Israeli military is allowed to do the same with impunity. We can agree that information given by Hamas should not be accepted uncritically, but that does not mean that Israeli narratives are above reproach. And how can we possibly pray for peace in Jerusalem while actively putting weapons into the hands of people who are hellbent on using them against Palestinians? Christian sympathy is useless if it means standing by as countless Palestinian men, women, and children are massacred.
It’s actually worse than useless; it’s heresy.
This Is Not a Poem
In “My Dreams as a Child,” Abu Toha reflects on his childhood hopes and, by extension, the things that bring joy and delight to Palestinian children. The list includes seeing animals at a zoo, playing soccer on the beach, and picking oranges with grandparents—answers you might hear from any child. Perhaps that is his point: to remind readers that the children of Palestine are not extensions of Hamas. Neither are they pawns in some apocalyptic game of spiritual chess. They are simply children with small dreams, secret longings, and tender hearts easily pierced by shrapnel.
Forest of Noise won’t provide concrete steps for ending the suffering in Gaza, but perhaps it can galvanize Christians into taking action. As followers of Christ, we have a choice to make. We can plug our ears to the brutality in Gaza and pass by on the other side of the road, or we can listen for God beyond the hate and confusion, seeing God in our Palestinian neighbor. We can remember that Christ was not immune to grief (John 11:35), and through him know the grief of Gaza’s orphans and widows is no less sacred. And we can try—indeed, we must try—to do what little good we can with the few talents we possess (Matthew 25:14-30).
We may never know why God has allowed such profound injustice and unspeakable pain, but we can still decide whether our hearts and ears remain open, if for no other reason than that we might hear the weeping beneath the rubble.
We can plug our ears to the brutality in Gaza and pass by on the other side of the road, or we can listen for God beyond the hate and confusion, seeing God in our Palestinian neighbor.
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