I lost everything. Not in a metaphorical way—everything. The tiny, beautiful things I had gathered over years of being an artist , of trying to build a life, piece by piece, object by object. All of it was burned—literally—by someone I had once loved. My partner of eight years. After our separation, he lost himself. And with him, he took the physical evidence of my existence. He set it all on fire.

There’s no ritual for this kind of grief. No grave to visit. No body to bury. Only ash.

These photographs are how I mourn. They are what I have instead of a home. Instead of my history. Each image is a fragment of a loss I couldn’t contain. They are not symbols—they are truths. Horrific, sacred, mundane truths from the Middle East, where life and death walk side by side, and love often ends in ruin.

As a vegetarian Eco-feminist, I’ve always resisted systems that consume without care—whether it’s the body of an animal, the body of a woman, or the body of the Earth. But when it happened to me, in my own home, I realized: this violence is not far away. It’s intimate. It knows your name. It kisses your forehead before it lights the match.

This is not an exhibition. It’s what’s left of me.