Ten years ago when we were told to 
hide if we want to keep ourselves and there might be a rocket
huddling our houses to the sky at any time,

My father took us to the beach and we watched
rockets tiptoe beyond the horizon and
clapped when the sirens and the waves
composed a symphony for us.

When my grandmother was prisoned for 
praying against something they didn’t see holiness in
she recorded a video which my mother watched while
eating peaches and passing her fingers through my hair.

My parents came from places where 
wars visited them too often.
So they never liked the police and
they bought as many flowers to place in their apartment 
so that their sudden death, if it happens, 
might look beautiful.

When my mother died I 
wore a pink shirt and hurried to tell my father.
My father smiled at me and we 
in that split second and among all the mourning
celebrated that little fact. 

My parents exhaled tenderness so
repeatedly in our palms that 
love and war don’t cancel each other when
both come at the doorstep.


Sabah el nour,

We just arrived and everything is alright, alhamdullilah.
We had tea with the family, the beach is beautiful and the people are nice and welcoming.
I hope everything is going just fine back home, we miss you. 



About Mohini's Postcards - This project is one of the most important of my artworks, as it was deeply rooted in the identity part of my work. The " 10 POSTCARDS" project is a fictive exchange between two lovers who are separated for a certain amount of time, because of a specific event that I purposely didnt develop - it could be anything, whether holidays in the homeland or something else. I chose to mix languages to give off a feeling of constant motion, having to move from one place to another without having the time to adapt to any. These postcards follow a person's trip with their families, who learns more about themselves while they're away from their country of adoption. While losing sight of familiar faces, they get in touch with people that resemble them, making them calmer and more organised in their thoughts. I wanted to express the feeling I've always felt of not belonging anywhere because I was too mixed, but simultaneously belonging everywhere, reconnecting with your/my-self through languages, in countries that are completely new to you/me yet being from there. The here, and there, and who, and (re)connection with the self, the death of "otherness" allowing us to erase the ego.



She washed the streets in salty tears, 
And turned the sand to mud, 
The wind picked up her deafening screams, 
As she limped back to her canvas hut. 

“No bread today,” she cried out loud, 
“The children took it all,
What can I do but cry and starve, 
And watch my country fall?” 

A loud thud then shook the fabric, 
Two minutes, they were covered in white, 
All the bread then turned to stone, 
The children now shared her strife. 

Her throat was parched, her fingers blue, 
She could not move an inch, 
They picked her up, her soul departed, 
Her coffin looked like a crib.

text // khulood fahim
art // mohini hewa