Harrowing...

Harrowing.

That was the word I kept hearing myself use last night at the art exhibition.

Leading up to the event, I had used the word "grappling."

But once I stood in front of the art pieces from artists in G♡za (and some exiled from G♡za)...the word harrowing was pulsing through my body.

And then I overheard a man using the word as well.

Me: Harrowing is the word for tonight.
Him: It is.
Me: I don't even know if I've ever used it before.
Him: Maybe it's fitting to use an agricultural term in this context.
Me: Agricultural????
Him: Yes, it's from the word 'harrow.' A machine that breaks the ground apart.

He then used his hand as a claw and pulled it across his heart.

Me: Yep, that's how it feels.

He then took out his phone, and showed me an image of a harrow.

And as I drove home from the exhibition, I couldn't stop thinking about that clawed hand, ripping the soil of the heart.

And somehow it felt like the perfect way to capture the unease of the evening.

Because there are no words that can do justice to what it's like to step from painting to painting, being the viewer of someone's personal lived experience of a gen0cide.

For a thousand days, I've been witnessing mass slaughter from the comfort and safety of my phone. As I go about my enchanted day that starts and ends with a hot shower. That's dotted with cups of tea from a flick of a kettle switch. I have endless toilet paper and a flush that magically removes the waste I produce. I have a fridge that needs to be emptied of food that will never be eaten. Hundreds of dogs, treated like royalty, walk past my house. And almost every person I meet in my day will tell me why the weather isn't quite to their liking.

Simultaneously, on my phone,  a child is collecting the remaining pieces of a sibling from the ground. A father is attempting to move a cement wall to reach his toddler. A chubby hand in amongst the rubble. And a mother makes a fire, by burning pieces of plastic, hoping it's hot enough to boil some water.

I wish I could look away.

And as I stand in front of each piece of art, I wish I was somewhere else.

Because the art is amplifying every feeling of discomfort of being a viewer of a gen0cide times a thousand. 

And I want to scream because we are so far into a gen0cide there was enough time to organise an art exhibition about it.

But of course I don't scream.

Instead I silently stand there. Looking at the art. Wondering how it feels to be an artist in G♡za. Having to choose which piece to share. Would I even want them to see it?

📍 Artful Yoga Gallery, St Kilda

📆 July 5 to 12

⏰️ 11 to 3

'A SPACE FOR WHAT CANNOT BE SAID'