An Exultation of the Work of Bashir Makhoul
April 24, 2025
GEOMETRIES OF EXILE
In this land of fractured light I recognize myself - divided, city upon city stacked, mathematics of separation.
Orange flames consume the borders, blue waters rise against the night. Who taught us to build these walls when earth belongs to no one?
Between two fragments lies a path, black and wordless. Call it the passage of those who cannot return. Call it home.
We walk through cities made of memory, grids that hold us like a promise or a prison. Windows look out on other windows.
And at the center of all things, a darkness blooms with petals. Is this the wound we carry, or is it the source of light?
The void speaks in a language older than my grandmother's hands. It says: even emptiness belongs somewhere. Even absence has a name.
I have seen blue flowers rising from the black mouth of history. I have watched orange blossoms scatter across the deep blue of forgetting.
This is our geography - torn maps, fragmented stones, and at the heart of everything a space where we might still belong.