Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Naomi Shihab Nye’s "The Palestinians Have Given Up Parties" is a lamentation, a record of loss, and a meditation on endurance. Through contrasts between past joy and present devastation, the poem mourns the erasure of celebration and the way violence replaces communal life. It is a deeply human portrait of a people who, despite being written out of the dominant narrative, remain present, their suffering palpable in every disrupted gathering, every uprooted tree, and every broken sentence.

The poem opens with a memory of celebration: "Once singing would rise / in sweet sirens over the hills." The use of "once" signals that this joy is no longer, that what follows is a recollection of a past now lost. Singing, which should be an ordinary and recurring presence in life, is placed in the past tense, already signaling an absence. The image of sound traveling "over the hills" suggests a time when communal life was open, expansive, and uninterrupted by war.

Nye then describes the preparation for these gatherings: "Even if you were working / with your trees or books / or cooking something simple / for your own family, / you washed your hands, / combed water through your hair." The transition from work to celebration is seamless, almost instinctive. The people in this world understand that joy is meant to be shared, that a party is not an exclusive event but a collective experience that calls to everyone. The listing of trees, books, and cooking suggests a life rooted in daily rituals, in labor and sustenance, all of which are disrupted by the loss that follows.

The images of the parties themselves are lush: "Mountains of rice, shiny shoes, / a hurricane of dancing." The abundance of food and movement underscores the richness of tradition, the vitality of culture. Children, dressed in "little suitcoats and velvet dresses," fall asleep in circles, exhausted from excess rather than fear. The details are intimate—"47 Jordan almonds"—as if the speaker recalls specific moments, numbers, and textures, grasping at memories before they fade entirely.

Nye introduces a subtle tension: "Who’s getting married? Who’s come home / from the far place over the seas?" The fact that sometimes people "didn’t even know" the reason for celebration emphasizes how ingrained joy was in communal life. People gathered not necessarily because of personal connection but because gathering was what life was meant to be. There is a poignant universality in this—celebration for its own sake, for the pleasure of being together. The past is marked by generosity and warmth, contrasting with what has replaced it.

Then, a devastating turn: "Where does fighting come into this story?" The line is abrupt, a fracture in the poem’s rhythm. The speaker insists: "Fighting got lost from somewhere else. / It is not what we like: to eat, to drink, to fight." This direct negation challenges dominant narratives that portray Palestinians primarily in terms of conflict. Nye asserts that violence was not an inherent part of the culture—it was something brought in, something imposed. The displacement of celebration by destruction is not a choice but a consequence.

The second half of the poem shifts fully into the present, where even small moments of joy are now impossible. "Now when the students gather quietly / inside their own classroom / to celebrate the last day of school, / the door to the building gets blasted off." Here, the contrast is most brutal—what was once a space for joyful community is now marked by sudden destruction. The "empty chairs where laughter used to sit" reinforce the erasure. Laughter, once alive and jingling "its pocket of thin coins," now "hides," unable to reappear. The poem suggests that laughter itself has become something that must be concealed, that cannot survive in an environment of constant fear.

Nye then turns to the erasure of Palestinian identity: "They have told us we are not here / when we were always here. / Their eraser does not work." This defiance, though quiet, is one of the poem’s most powerful moments. The "eraser"—a metaphor for colonial erasure, occupation, and historical revisionism—"does not work." The line asserts that no matter how much history is rewritten, presence cannot be erased. This echoes a broader reality: despite displacement, despite the destruction of physical spaces, the people remain, their existence undeniable.

The reference to "hand-tinted photos of young men: / too perfect, too still" evokes martyr portraits, the preserved images of the dead. These figures, frozen in time, contrast with the living, the ones left to navigate the broken world. The sentence that follows—"The bombs break everyone’s sentences in half."—is both literal and metaphorical. War interrupts conversations, silences voices, cuts off communication, and destroys continuity. Language itself is fractured, just as history and daily life are.

Nye introduces a rare direct address: "Who made them? Do you know anyone / who makes them?" These questions are posed without answer, inviting reflection on complicity, on the abstract distance between those who order destruction and those who suffer from it. The "ancient taxi driver / shakes his head back and forth / from Jerusalem to Jericho." His gesture suggests resignation, exhaustion, the futility of trying to explain. He delivers a statement of deep wisdom: "They will not see, he says slowly, / the story behind the story, / they are always looking for the story after the story / which means they will never understand the story." This profound observation critiques the way outsiders view Palestinian history—not as an ongoing, layered reality but as isolated events, always seeking the "next" development rather than understanding the roots of the suffering. The conflict is misrepresented because its deeper origins, the "story behind the story," are ignored.

The final lines are devastating in their quiet sorrow. "How can we stand it if it goes on and on? / It is too long already." The exhaustion of endurance is palpable—how long must a people live in suffering, in forced adaptation to violence? The speaker acknowledges the unbearable weight of history repeating itself.

The poem closes with images of things no longer happening: "No one even gets a small bent postcard / from the far place over the seas anymore." Even the most modest tokens of connection have ceased. "No one hears the soldiers come at night / to pluck the olive tree from its cool sleep." This line captures the intimate violence of occupation—"plucking" suggests something delicate, something that should not be disturbed. The olive tree, a symbol of rootedness and endurance, is forcibly removed. That this is not a "headline in your country or mine" reinforces the silence surrounding such destruction.

The final image—"No one hears the tiny sobbing / of the velvet in the drawer."—is the poem’s softest yet most haunting moment. The "velvet in the drawer" could symbolize abandoned luxury, forgotten tenderness, or even the clothing of those who are gone. The fact that it "sobs" suggests an ongoing, unheard grief. The poem ends not with an explosion but with a quiet, nearly imperceptible loss.

"The Palestinians Have Given Up Parties" is an elegy for joy, for unbroken gatherings, for a past that was stolen. Through contrast, repetition, and layered imagery, Naomi Shihab Nye reveals the deep human toll of war and occupation. The poem does not just mourn the loss of celebrations—it mourns the loss of the ability to live without fear, to gather without destruction, to exist without being erased. Yet, in its quiet defiance—"Their eraser does not work."—the poem insists that memory, presence, and history remain, even when the world refuses to acknowledge them.

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