On March 24, I was part of an international group of artists and activists who unfurled a monumental quilt measuring 30 by 50 feet (~9.1 by 15.2 meters), protesting for a free Palestine on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. We held the space for two hours with music, dancers, chanting, and guest speakers. It was breathtaking and powerful.
The quilt, comprising 69 square artworks, was collectively conceived through months of discussions between members of the online group Hope in the Art World. We are international artists responding to Zionism, standing with the Palestinian people, and committed to resisting all forms of racism, including Islamophobia and antisemitism, through art. Because being vocal about the genocide in Gaza (and the decades-long occupation of Palestine) is routinely punished and dismissed, we couldn’t help but think about the impact of the Names Project AIDS Memorial Quilt. We could see it, this massive quilt sprawled across the steps of NYC’s largest and most renowned cultural institution. We would break the silence that equals death.
As this action took shape, I became the quilt keeper, hosting painting gatherings, sewing circles, and collecting quilt squares from all over the world. It was a fitting role given my long history of activist artmaking. For eight years in the 2010s, I was a Missile Dick Chick, protesting the Iraq war, Bush’s violent, ever-expanding War on Terror, and the rampant Islamophobia after September 11. I performed as a war-hungry “Chick” donning a chill two-and-a-half-foot-long strap-on missile dick and a giant red, white, and blue war chest filled with US tax dollars. This was before Instagram and before Twitter became a thing, so we mostly relied on independent press and mainstream media to spread our message of resistance.
During my Missile Dick Chick days, I had no direct relationships with Iraqis or Iraqi-Americans. I read and saw limited imagery and video from the region, and only in a distanced way. It’s so different now. Every day, I watch the genocide in Gaza in real time, watching horrific death and destruction in 4K video every time I pick up my phone.
After we unfurled the quilt at The Met, I shared our work on social media. It was important to everyone who worked on the project to keep the vision alive and for the work to take on different forms. Through Hope in the Art World, we began selling archival art prints of each quilt square to raise money to support Palestinians in Gaza.
In April, a man named Mo’min Zahar reached out to me from Gaza to tell me he loved the quilt and the solidarity of the artists with Palestine. We started chatting regularly, instantly feeling a connection. He shared that he was a pediatric dentist whose dental practice and family home were bombed in late October of 2023. He has been living with his mother, father, and two siblings in Gaza since then. His other sister and brother-in-law had gotten out and now live in Norway. The family in Gaza was displaced and living in a tent, until they found a place in a building within a refugee camp.
The name Mo’min means one who believes in God, a person who is pious, always on faith
Mo’min shared with me how much he missed his dental practice. He sent pictures of himself with his clients, all children. Many of them were recently martyred. Known for his goofy sense of humor and gentle manner, he is loved by his community. He shared stories of the children who’d always been afraid of going to the dentist until they visited him.
I was struck by Mo’min’s passion for his craft and deep love of his work and community. We began our friendship with shop talk. Suddenly, being an artist and being a dentist didn’t feel so different; we both found so much joy in our independent practices. What also struck me was that we weren’t only talking about life and death and the dire circumstances he and his family were in.
I noticed Mo’min’s GoFundMe fundraiser on his social media page, and made a donation. I told him I’d like to ask my quilt group if we could work on fulfilling his funding goals with print sales. He was excited by the idea and talked about how hard it was for him to ask people for money.
We started selling lots of prints, and chatted night and day, diligently working on his family’s evacuation plans. We built a genuine connection with trust and humor, and over time, lots of romantic emojis, silly fiery redhead flirtings, and vampire dentist jokes like “I’m gonna bite you.”
We found strength and trust in each other, while schools, hospitals, mosques, and entire bloodlines of families were being wiped out. Mo’min’s best friend from dental school was martyred during this time. I got to see all their pictures, from attending university together to starting their dental practices, their smiles showing such confidence in their bright futures, even under the occupation.
I hate the night. They come in the night to kill those who are sleeping
On May 6, the Rafah crossing was closed. It was the same day we were protesting The Met Gala. I felt so much rage and despair: Would our beloved Gazan family ever be safe? Running around city blocks and stopping traffic, I took pictures to send to Mo’min. I know for a fact that there are Palestinians in Gaza who are seeing the actions we take to fight for a free Palestine, and that it gives them hope.
Mo’min calls me his “revolutionary.” He is so proud of me, but I feel ashamed. Why can’t we do more? After all this time, with the global protests and interventions, with the International Court of Justice (ICJ), the International Criminal Court (ICC), and a majority of world leaders standing in support, why can’t we stop this genocide?
I reach my arms out towards Gaza, my arms grow longer and longer and my arms cross the ocean and the rivers
and the sea and my arms scoop my Gaza family up
Since Israel closed the Rafah crossing, there have been frequent bombings in Mo’min’s area. Each time there’s an airstrike, the phone service goes out for a while. The family went through a six-day period with no food or water. Through each of these hard times, I write to his sister in Norway. She is dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), having lived under that same bombardment, while I have had no experience with war trauma. From our different realities, we come together in these moments, sharing feelings of helplessness, despair, and care. Whenever we finally hear from the family in Gaza, we’re elated. Relieved to hear from him, I’ll tell Mo’min, “I’m crying.” He’ll reply, “Have you eaten?” He always asks me this. I tell him yes, but I can’t bring myself to say what I ate when the family has so little to eat. After a recent attack, he said, “You are my soul,” and now I say back, “You are my heartbeat.”
He asked me if I had eaten as he walked through white phosphorus
My thin, privileged American skin had gotten thicker by then.
I say, “I am holding you.”
Soon we are giggling and sending each other silly emojis, photos, artworks, songs, and new political cartoons we find about the situation. We get back to the business of living and loving with defiant joy. Mo’min returns to his daily routine, looking for food and water, chopping wood, and cooking a meal over a fire for the family.
Mo’min and I constantly work on ideas for fundraising for his family and others. We recently designed art t-shirts based on the quilt squares.
Mo’min: “Take from the money we raised and buy
yourself a rose. You deserve a rose and so much more.”
Me: “I got a beautiful red rose, thank you. I placed it on
my altar to pray for us.”
Mo’min and me. There’s an “us” now. We dream and plan for the moment when we will celebrate Palestinian liberation, holding each other in our love and resistance. We envision rebuilding, creating and choosing our own adventures on the other side of this genocide. Freedom is the goal. And we’re giving each other moments of it along the way, even if we never actually meet.
