Fragments of Ourselves
“Fragments of ourselves were going all over the place, as if to live meant to scatter endlessly.”
“Des fragments de nous-mêmes partaient dans tous les sens, comme si vivre signifiait s’éparpiller sans cesse.”
Waiting is more than just a mere phase; it contains a lot of complex emotions that deeply affects
the ones tormented by it in unfathomable way. This series is an attempt to understand the pain
that accompanies waiting where we can find real, precious and sensitive pieces of ourselves.
In spending time with a group of Sudanese women living in Cairo, our internal state connected
us on a much deeper level than anything. Single mothers who are waiting to go back to their
home country, Sudan. Henna dancers who are sharing their loneliness, dancing to forget – or to
remember; and some are just waiting for something unknown or unreachable.
As for me, I have been committed to a lot of waiting in my life.
With intense red, bruised blue, and all the silent black and white in between, that emotional
struggle becomes a poetic dialogue between all the fragments within us.
What we take with us and what we leave behind,
When home becomes a distant memory.
When the souls who made us feel home are no longer there.
When memories become fragments that dig holes inside our hearts.
When the longing becomes unbearable and reality is nothing but fragments of past lives.
When melancholy fills our souls, forcing us to move, to leave what once was.
When our solace comes only from remembering what we should forget.
