{"id":278627,"date":"2025-06-19T05:38:45","date_gmt":"2025-06-19T05:38:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/michigandigitalnews.com\/index.php\/2025\/06\/19\/something-other-than-blood-eurozine\/"},"modified":"2025-06-25T17:08:01","modified_gmt":"2025-06-25T17:08:01","slug":"something-other-than-blood-eurozine","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/michigandigitalnews.com\/index.php\/2025\/06\/19\/something-other-than-blood-eurozine\/","title":{"rendered":"Something other than blood | Eurozine"},"content":{"rendered":"

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How do I write above the clouds my kin\u2019s will? And my kin \/ leave time behind \u2026, and my kin \/ whenever they build a fortress they raze it to erect above it \/ a tent of longing<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

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Hug, Bayan Abu Nahla, 2024, ink and watercolour on paper. Image courtesy of the artist<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\u2018How do I write above the clouds?\u2019, asked Mahmoud Darwish, the Palestinian poet. How do I write above the clouds my kin\u2019s will? Strangers pass by carrying seven hundred years of horses on an Earth that was not his; only the keys to the sky were. Darwish, who so poignantly wrote about the anguish of dispossession and exile, exited the wrinkles of his time following his own will: to be expelled slowly, to be killed quickly, beneath his olive tree, with Lorca.<\/p>\n

For the past few months, Yasmin Huleileh, Ahmad Alaqra, Andr\u00e9s Burbano and I have been organizing I Will Write Our Will Above the Clouds, a series of events aimed at raising funds for Gaza. It all began with Darwish, whose cries we still hear, perhaps even louder today, even after his passing. Each morning, I wake up to the news and think of my friends in Gaza: \u2018Are they alright?\u2019<\/p>\n

There is barely any electricity there, and connection to the Internet is scarce. Amer Nasser photographs are a means of survival. He climbs mountains of rubble, hoping to find connection, to send a signal. \u2018This is how we survive,\u2019 he says, \u2018with the word \u201cbarely\u201d written everywhere: this is barely a house, this is barely a cup of tea, this is barely living\u2019. Like NASA spacecraft Voyager 1 in 1977, traversing the vastness of space, he tries to send his signals into the void, hoping someone, somewhere, will receive them \u2013 and remember.<\/p>\n

If they leave, they leave a land to be taken; but if they stay? Artist Amal Al Nakhala imagines the day when corpses will start falling from the skies:<\/p>\n

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I\u2019ve been all in \u2018sway\u2019, watching or rather reliving each massacre \u2026 and now it\u2019s simply become normal routine you see daily, passing by it as if you are passing by trash or something. \u2026 It\u2019s become so normal for my people to decompose, be burned, amputated, for their flesh to fall, disintegrating from the bones, for their corpses to be eaten by dogs, for babies to be killed in their mothers\u2019 wombs. I wouldn\u2019t even be shocked if once the sky would simply rain people from all of these endless bombs.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

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Raining People, Amal Al Nakhala, 2024, ballpoint on paper, 42 x 59.4 cm. Image courtesy of the artist<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

Is this how one writes their will above the clouds?<\/p>\n

Artist Bayan Abu Nahla regrets evacuating Gaza. She managed to leave through a health transfer to Egypt, only to find there were no doctors nor hospitals, only a detention centre and months of utter isolation: \u2018take me back to Gaza, where at least hugs are like nowhere else.\u2019<\/p>\n

Artist Shereen Abdelkareem, on the other hand, dreamed of taking Gaza with her. She wanted to carry her home, her grandfather\u2019s house, the mosque that her grandfather loves, her university, her workplace, the caf\u00e9 where she met her friends, her neighbourhood bakery, her neighbours\u2019 homes, the hospital where she was born. She wanted to take her dreams with her, her memories, her childhood, her prayers, her days, her present, her past, her future. But her \u2018bag wasn\u2019t big enough\u2019.<\/p>\n

Over time, Abdelkareem\u2019s resolve shifted; she doesn\u2019t want to take Gaza with her anymore: \u2018As for me, leave me here\u2019 \u2026 \u2018We will never forget, even if we lose our memories\u2019. And so begins the tenth exodus towards death.<\/p>\n

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Read Issa, 2024, coffee on paper. Image courtesy of the artist<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

Artist Sohail Salem\u2019s serene and peaceful oils on canvas are now erratic strokes, scribbles of anguish etched onto notebooks. Artist Raed Issa, who longs for a simple cup of coffee, uses dregs instead for his art \u2013 now his only available drawing medium. Since 7 October artist Maisara Baroud has made sure to stay in touch with his friends as much as possible, reassuring them daily through a new sketch via another post on Instagram. These drawings are his way of saying \u2018I am still alive\u2019.<\/p>\n

Baroud strives to document the war, capturing the details of every account \u2013 the destruction, patience, hunger, weakness, displacement, pain, brokenness, death and resilience, thus transposing stories of a war that unleashes incommensurable harm. Planes and missiles have destroyed all his dreams and possessions, but they couldn\u2019t take away his passion and love for drawing.<\/p>\n

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Maisara Baroud, 2024. Image courtesy of the artist<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

Our series, I Will Write Our Will Above the Clouds, began as an effort to showcase past works that had been destroyed \u2013 bombed, buried under rubble. Now, it includes works being created in the present: in tents, in pain. Each time one of the artists doesn\u2019t reply for more than three days, we live in anguish. Then, their response arrives, and we carry on.<\/p>\n

The pieces we showcase are digital copies \u2013 another meaning of \u2018the clouds\u2019. Nothing can enter or leave Gaza. Thousands of aid trucks wait at the border, barred from crossing while Gazans starve. We will write our will above the clouds, for the digital cloud is our only communication lifeline. Our only way to receive, as Nasser says, \u2018signals of life\u2019.<\/p>\n

How would Darwish\u2019s poetry convey all of this if written today? Will we write our will above the clouds? Inside a tent? Beneath the moon? Under the shade of an olive tree? Will we write our will with something other than blood? \u2018The olive grove was always green; \/ It was, my beloved. \/ But tonight \/ The blood of fifty victims \/ Has turned it into a red pool. \/ Please don\u2019t blame me \/ If I can\u2019t come; \/ They\u2019ve murdered me too\u2019.<\/p>\n

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Amer Nasser, 2024, digital photograph. Image courtesy of the artist<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

The names in the text are the real names of Gazan artists whose work we exhibit, except for Mahmoud Darwish, who is no longer with us. The names in the text are the real names of our friends. And all of this is for them.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/p><\/div>\n