Khalas by Rayya Liebich is a chapbook as beautiful as it is haunting. The words on the page give an unequivocal picture regarding Israel’s continual assault and genocide of the Palestinian people. Khalas, meaning “enough” in Arabic, details Liebich’s thoughts, hopes, and devastation as the writer watches the genocide unfold as the world stands idly by. Her pleas to those in the chapbook (her husband, the reader, the world) can be felt through the pages. With heart wrenching prose it fuels the readers drive to do something, while giving no soft pause for those who wish to stay on the bylines. Perhaps the three most moving pieces for myself (as a white Canadian settler) were “What Can I Do? I Feel So Hopeless”, “Hands of a Maker”, and “I Am Glad My Mother Did Not Live To See This Day”. The first poem I felt drawn to mostly as I could see myself in the writer’s husband, and his indecision on the “right” steps to take. Liebich takes care to make sure her husband is not the focal point of the piece but instead a way to understand the genocide ongoing in Palestine:
He cannot jump
into my veins and feel the electric current of my DNA.
He cannot hear the Arabic words that haunt me as I’m stirring soup or folding laundry.
He cannot see the rubble crushing nightmares that startle me awake at 4am
even if he’s sharing the same twin sheets
“Hands of a Maker” juxtaposes the writer’s life with that of a seamstress, as Liebich reflects on her life, and other tragedies. Her comparison to the gown made by a Palestinian seamstress to that of the Red Dress Project for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls gave a Canadian reflection to the ongoing genocide in Palestine. In both cases Canada as a country stands by as the vast majority tries not to think of those who have died. In both cases Canada could do something more, yet doesn’t. Perhaps the most powerful poem in the book is “I Am Glad My Mother Did Not Live to See This Day”, which details Liebich’s relief in her mother not having to see what is ongoing in Palestine. As much as I could write about this poem, my best suggestion is to read it yourself.
Although the book is steeped in grief, it ends with a poetically hopeful message of solidarity in the poem “Something.” “Something” encourages the reader to not give up, as hoping for a better world is necessary in times such as these. “Something” ties the book together nicely, and details the importance of solidarity through difficult times, and the implicit importance of solidarity with Palestinians.
To be surrounded by those who knew nothing,
who were willing to lose everything to know something is hope.
Without the allies,
we are nothing.
Without the voices of the oppressed,
we are nothing.
Without the woman with the purple hair and the toddler shaking a maraca,
we are nothing.
This book does not go lightly on your feelings, it does not step delicately around your “niceness”. The writer’s rage and grief can be felt through the pages so deeply it asks the reader to think above what is “nice” what is “correct” and asks its reader “when will it be enough?”.
RAYYA LIEBICH (she/her) is a writer and educator of Lebanese and Polish descent. She is the author of the award-winning chapbook “Tell Me Everything” (Beret Day Press) and full length poetry collection “Min Hayati” (Inanna Publications). Passionate about writing as a tool for transformation and changing the discourse on grief, she believes in the power of words to change minds and hearts and in the responsibility of poets to be truth tellers and to record poems as a testimony to history.
Publisher: Gridlock Lit (February 2025)
K.W. is an autistic queer individual who enjoys reading! They work in the helping field, and has a strong sense of justice. K.W. is excited to join the Miramichi reader as a first time reviewer in 2024.
