After the first week of the massacres against civilians, I found myself in Tunisia preparing for the opening of what was meant to be my first solo institutional exhibition, in my beloved and native country.
Yet, the unfolding tragedy cast a shadow that left no room for celebration or joy. Many events and festivals were cancelled, including the GCC, Tunisia’s oldest film festival. I felt compelled to act differently. Today, more than ever, we must raise our voices, unite in our pain, and stand strong in the face of overwhelming grief. Those who seek to divide us count on our resignation and despair—but we must not let them succeed.
We postponed the opening of my exhibition to join the general strike. In those days, witnessing the unrelenting bloodshed, I felt myself mourning each lost soul as if they were my own family. The pain was intimate—each Palestinian martyr’s blood felt like my blood. It became clear: the only way to express this solidarity was to paint with my own blood. I pressed it onto paper in the pattern of a keffieh, then sealed it between acrylic sheets and placed it with stones on a shelf. This became Dammi.
This work is dedicated to the Palestinian people, to whom I owe profound gratitude and love for all they teach humanity today. Gaza is no longer just a city or a territory; it has become a symbol—an unwavering beacon of freedom, dignity, and love, capable of embracing the whole world.
