A Life That Was Here, Then Suddenly Cut Off
A series of photographs and texts in which Nawar recounts the traces of survival after the July massacres in Suwayda.
At first, the photographs seemed ordinary.
A bag, a room, friends, a kitchen, a broken oud.
Then the real file arrived.
And we discovered that each image carried within it a hidden story of survival, loss, and memories unseen at first glance.
“I found myself feeling guilty, and my guilt was that I survived the fire. I had never known before that in this country, a person might survive the flames and still burn in the ashes.”
“I see my childhood friends, their faces changed, yet they survived the curse of July. Sameh immerses himself in music, while Salam disappears into photography, and Amal writes about all of this. And here we are together, sharing the land, the shock, and the loss.”
“I hear the sounds of terror when a door closes, when a chicken flaps its wings, and every time I remember a distant dream that drifts farther away, fleeing the fire while we discover new boundaries of ashes and siege.”
“In my solitude, I found consolation for my future — a future whose horizons have narrowed, a future confined within the borders of my village.”
“The same friends, gathered on an outing, saying through a song what is difficult to say aloud.”
“For the first time, I felt that pain could leave quietly. It will not bring back our warm home, but perhaps it can keep us from drowning. Perhaps I will write my name on the wall of my burned house… and wake up, even if too late.”
