Years have passed, and I am still trying to make sense of this experience. Everything has become intertwined—the two lives, the two realities. My life here is like a chain that has been severed into two parts, and I find myself in the void in between. The part behind is becoming more distant, and the part ahead seems unreal. Since then, I have not felt connected to spaces.

When I think about my home in Syria, I can recall every crack in the walls, every object, color, and smell. One evening, in our apartment in Paris, I began searching for these same details. I noticed marks on the walls that seemed new, yet they were not. I searched for others, and, in fact, the whole place seemed strange to me.

So, how can one build a home when there is no land? When one is uprooted? Cut off? Few years ago, a project took shape: I wanted to show what it was like to have an inaccessible space and the connection to roots and land, not in a political way, but more like a childhood memory. I started taking photos of inaccessible houses—hidden by trees, destroyed, abandoned, concealed by tarps and scaffolding—in France or during my travels. Sometimes, using double exposure or other techniques, I made certain houses inaccessible in a dreamlike manner. Through this project, I seek to photograph the space in-between where I found myself since my exile from Syria at the end of 2015. Through the photo, I make real and give existence to an imaginary house, a space that belongs to me, allowing me to feel connected to my new "home."

Exhibitions :

Les Amarres Syrien N’est Fait 2022.