Ghassan Kanafani's 'Letter from Gaza': A timeless testament of resistance amidst war

“No, my friend, I have changed my mind. I won’t follow you to ‘the land where there is greenery, water and lovely faces.’ No, I’ll stay here, and I won’t ever leave.” With these resolute words, Ghassan Kanafani immortalizes a moment of profound choice, where the soul is torn between escape and endurance, between the seductions of a distant paradise and the harsh, unyielding embrace of one’s homeland. In “Letter from Gaza,” Kanafani crafts not merely a letter but a manifesto of resistance, a lyrical testament to the indomitable spirit of a people bound to their land by the deepest of roots.

In Ghassan Kanafani’s “Letter from Gaza,” a masterful narrative unfolds, skillfully intertwining the personal and the political to create an intricate tapestry of loss, love, despair, and defiance. More than just a “telling” letter, the text transcends its narrative form to evolve into a poignant metaphor for the Palestinian struggle, where each emotional thread becomes deeply interwoven with the harsh realities of displacement, occupation, and the unyielding battle for identity and autonomy. Under the shadow of these profound challenges, the narrative reverberates with the unyielding spirit of a people who, despite the forces arrayed against them, continue to assert their existence and their rights.

Kanafani’s life, ineradicably scarred by the Nakba and culminating in his tragic assassination in 1972, casts him as the quintessential chronicler of a nation’s wounds. During the 1960s, a decade that saw the emergence of “Letter to Gaza,” the tightening hold of Israeli occupation and the escalating despair of Palestinians were vividly on display, with the Six-Day War of 1967 worsening this dire situation. In the midst of such profound political turmoil, “Letter from Gaza” emerges as a poignant personal confession intertwined with a national allegory. The epistolary form of the text, intimate and direct, allows Kanafani to engage in a dialogue that is as much with the reader as it is with the recipient of the letter. With this form, Kanafani skillfully juxtaposes the ordinary against the extraordinary, the personal with the collective, and the quotidian alongside the historical.

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Kanafani’s choice of the epistolary form in the text is a deliberate one, for it lends the narrative an immediacy and intimacy that a conventional third-person perspective could scarcely achieve. The letter, addressed to his oldest and dearest friend Mustafa, who is living in Sacramento, becomes a vessel through which the narrator articulates the deep-seated conflict between personal desires and the collective obligations imposed by his identity as a Palestinian. Infused with a profound sense of ambivalence, the narrator’s voice reflects the tension between the alluring freedom found in California and the unyielding duty to remain in Gaza, despite the ever-present specter of violence and deprivation.

The narrator’s sudden declaration— “No, my friend, I have changed my mind. I won’t follow you to ‘the land where there is greenery, water and lovely faces.’ No, I’ll stay here, and I won’t ever leave”—is not merely a renunciation of an opportunity for personal advancement. It is a repudiation of the seductive mirage of a life unburdened by the weight of history. The narrator’s decision to remain in Gaza is, in essence, a reaffirmation of his identity, an identity inextricably linked to the land, the struggle, and the memory of a people who have endured untold suffering.

Gaza, in Kanafani’s narrative, is not just a geographical entity but a symbol of both entrapment and resistance. In a depiction marked by its bleak and almost suffocating tone, the city emerges as a place where life itself appears to have stalled, with “cramped” streets and a place likened to “the introverted lining of a rusted snail-shell.” In conjuring a profound feeling of stagnation, Kanafani’s imagery crafts a vision of a realm severed from the continuum of time, even as it simultaneously emanates a quiet, concealed power.

The narrator’s initial detachment from Gaza—his eagerness to escape the “reek of defeat” that has permeated his life for seven long years—is indicative of a broader disillusionment that many Palestinians felt during this period. However, this detachment is complicated by the narrator’s return to Gaza, where he is confronted with the realities that he had hoped to leave behind. As the city reveals its “narrow streets” and “bulging balconies,” it transforms into a vibrant entity that mirrors both the deterioration of history and the hopeful potential for regeneration.

The story’s turning point occurs when the narrator visits his niece Nadia in the hospital. Nadia, who has lost her leg in an Israeli attack, becomes the embodiment of Gaza itself—wounded, mutilated, yet unyielding. Nadia’s amputated leg emerges as a potent symbol of the irreparable damage inflicted upon the Palestinian people. The leg encapsulates not only the physical wound but also the collective suffering and the enduring sacrifices made in the Palestinians’ struggle for survival and resistance.

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At its core, “Letter from Gaza” is a meditation on the politics of memory and the imperative of return. The palimpsest of experiences that molds the narrator’s identity is formed by the interweaving of his recollections of Gaza with his current existence. The past does not fade into insignificance or vanish into forgetfulness; it is an energetic, enduring force that necessitates the narrator’s continued presence, defiance, and recollection. Kanafani’s narrative equally suggests that memory is not merely a repository of bygone events but a dynamic force that informs and shapes the present. The narrator’s choice to stay in Gaza, as opposed to fleeing to California, serves as a recognition of the inextricable link between memory and identity. To forget Gaza, to leave it behind, would be to sever oneself from the very essence of what it means to be Palestinian. This idea is crystallized in the narrator’s final plea to Mustafa: “Come back, my friend! We are all waiting for you.” This call to return is not just a physical return to Gaza but a call to reengage with the struggle, to reaffirm one’s identity through the act of remembering and resisting. The story concludes with a sense of unfinished business, of a struggle that continues, a road that must still be traveled.

In “Letter from Gaza,” Kanafani constructs a narrative that transcends the boundaries of personal correspondence to become a profound exploration of the Palestinian condition. Through the lens

of one man’s internal conflict, Kanafani delves into the broader themes of displacement, memory, and resistance. Through the trials imposed by history, the story emerges as a powerful testament to a people’s enduring spirit, showcasing their resolute refusal to forsake their identity or their homeland.

In the context of the recent Israeli assault on Gaza, marked by widespread destruction and genocidal acts against Palestinians, the significance of Ghassan Kanafani’s narrative is magnified to vividly portray the enduring themes of loss, resistance, and identity. Rather than simply mirroring past events, Kanafani’s “Letter to Gaza” emerged as a prophetic forecast of what lies ahead, envisioning a future where the wounds of his time could eventually birth a new age shaped by the enduring forces of memory and timeless resistance.

The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.