Art Under Siege

INSTALLATION LOG // >
Exhibit Entry ____ Distortion Dialogue

t’s been a few weeks of focusing on Palestinian artists. Each piece we’ve shared, each brushstroke or stanza, feels like both a tribute and an elegy. It’s hard, honestly, it’s impossible to look at all this art without thinking about everything that’s currently being lost to the genocide. Not just lives, though that alone is unbearable. But also the lifework, the language, the stories, the colours, the ancestral gestures passed down through generations. Human history is being eliminated alongside human life.

Art isn’t separate from survival. These works aren’t distractions, they’re memory. They’re proof of existence. And as we lose artists, archives, entire communities, we’re also losing the tangible record of who we’ve been, who we are, and who we could have been.

We keep going because documenting it, witnessing it, amplifying it this is resistance. But some days it feels like trying to collect light from a burning library.

Right now, a freedom flotilla is making its way toward Gaza, carrying a small group of twelve activists. They know the risks. They know they could be detained, attacked, even killed. But they’re going anyway risking everything to make a statement the world keeps trying to ignore.

The food on board isn’t enough. It will not feed two million people. It won’t end the famine that has been deliberately engineered through Israel’s blockade. But it’s not just about food it’s about refusing to be silent. It’s about breaking through, literally and symbolically, the wall that has been built around Gaza for decades.

Yesterday marked the beginning of Eid. A sacred time. A time for prayer, for family, for celebration. And yet, forty-two people were killed, adults, children, journalists. Lives ended in an instant. Their names will likely not trend. Their deaths will be rationalised or dismissed by those who still cannot bear to look this genocide in the face.

The time when it was acceptable to look away, if it ever was, has long since passed. This is not a conflict with two equal sides. This is not complicated. This is a genocide happening in real time.

Children are starving. They are being bombed in their homes, shot in the streets, buried under rubble while the world debates language. Their bodies are not political metaphors. They are children.

There is no excuse left for silence. No neutrality that doesn’t amount to complicity. You do not need to be Palestinian to care. You do not need to be an expert to speak. You only need to be human.

I will continue to write about the artists and journalists who are risking everything—or who have already given everything—to tell the story of their people. To document the truth. To make sure the world cannot say it didn’t know.

But right now, I’m feeling deeply helpless. Because what’s happening is unimaginable. And yet, it’s happening. Every hour brings another horror. Another child pulled from rubble. Another name added to a growing list that no longer fits on a page. It’s not just grief it’s fury, it’s despair, it’s the unbearable knowledge that bearing witness is not enough to stop the bloodshed.Keep writing.
Keep speaking.
Don’t close your eyes.

FAce-lIft

Feed the Paws…