“There is an ancient line that says: And never think that the oppressor goes unseen.”
I painted this because I needed to believe it myself.
The figure bows, not in defeat, but beneath the weight of memory, witness, and survival.
The red is blood that never reached the headlines.
The black is grief without language.
And the calligraphy remains like the last thing left standing after everything else has fallen.
This piece was created alongside كتاب The Book. Same night. Same silence. Same wound.
My father’s family is from Palestine, so this work was never made from distance. It came from memory, loss, and the need to leave something honest behind.
Digital hand-painted artwork.
1/1.
