I am not myself, not Buthayna Ali, not a body, not a woman, not
a Muslim, not a Syrian, not an ArabÖ
many prisons forces itself upon me.
They are combined in me, melting me, turning me into hard and
Hard to defend my existence, while fluid to escape, through my
work, away from those jails.
One day I had to choose my purpose, I chose art.
When I stood up,
I was standing on a ground full of needles.
But my femininity shouted colors.
Full of blood and damage, full of repetition and stability,
full of hate and only words for love.
I started my career as a painter.
But painting was not enough for me to deliver my messages.
Being aware that art has taken over traditions and has set its
I recognized that I was chained.
So why not to take the advantages of this new artistic path, to
convey my thoughts, and to interact
with my viewers!
It was then that I understood that I was a mother,
My work is me.
They tried to veil my womb,
But I begat! I begat kids! That canít be executed.
Not by politics, by religion, nor by money.
Itís my existence, identity, memory, contradictions, screams, my
words and my questions.
My materials are any optical element, any media that is
available and is acceptable for the work of art.