In this piece, I’ve placed a chaotic battle scene—borrowed from a traditional Persian miniature—into conversation with two anachronistic, cartoon-like figures: a mother and child. The child, clutching a red balloon, stands at the edge of the turmoil, seemingly unaware or perhaps too used to its presence. The mother, with a mix of weariness and resignation, holds the child's hand while glancing at the battlefield—not with surprise, but with a tired familiarity.

The core of this work is a reflection on how war bleeds into our lives, even when we think it exists elsewhere—on old parchment, in distant lands, in ancient tales. Yet it finds a way to frame our present. The mother and child live outside the miniature, but they are not free of it. The balloon—a symbol of innocence, joy, perhaps even peace—floats close to the conflict, and is at risk of being swallowed by it.

This juxtaposition is intentional. It speaks to how violence, history, and inherited trauma shape our daily existence. No matter how decorative or stylized war may appear in retellings, its consequences are real, generational, and inescapable. By contrasting the ornate brutality of the past with the mundane tenderness of today, I ask: what have we normalized? What have we accepted as just part of the frame?

The war doesn’t stay inside the picture. It leaks out—into our homes, our parenting, our stories, our play. And yet, life continues. The balloon is still held, hands are still joined. But the question remains: at what cost?