"I can see the light, like stars In a clear night sky, but I can’ t reach it or claim it as my own. It doesn’t illuminate my world; instead, it offers a fleeting hope that fades with each passing day."

It’s a weird thing, Migration.
Once As I was walking down the street with my leather bag on my shoulder and my phone on my hand, I saw women with their hair breaded probably for too long and with their dirt and dust covered Shiffon dresses guessing they are from the war torn area forced to leave their homes in order to keep their’s and their children’s life going.
I didn’t want to take any photos that day, I was just inhaling the pain I see in their faces while they beg for food.

I kept thinking how lonely they could be at that moment.
Kept thinking how heartbroken they could be while they send their kids to beg money and see how they are been treated.
I kept thinking how sad they could be about their significant others not being around , probably facing a physical injury or even lost their lives to save their family.
Kept thinking how they are facing all my fears together and somehow they have a flicker of hope inside their eyes.
Kept thinking how weak I am as a woman, as an artist to bring no change in this, to have no power, to have no voice.
Kept thinking how each street is filled with heart breaks and despair.
Yet I am no one to contribute into the solution.
Kept thinking how I could be in the same spot as a Person, as an Ethiopian, as an African Woman.

So as days go by I kept trying to pour out these emotions out of my heart through my self portraits layered with the landscapes I saw in fear because of them being so empty.
I started breaking them down , cutting piece by piece and weaving together in hope of creating a new life, in desire of fixing, touching each cut out as if am moving each heart back to its home.
But then again it hurts so much to see my hands moving and doing nothing for those women, for my sisters at pain.

Artbecame mylifelineduring a time when depression silenced my voice and severed my connection to writing once my greatest passion. I stopped
believing my words could be heard, or that they even mattered.
In that silence, I turned to a new language: images, textures, and thread. My process begins with self-portrait photography capturing fragments of identity and vulnerability. I cut these prints apart, then weave and sew them together again. This act of reconstructing what was broken mirrors my own healing. Each piece becomes both a wound and a restoration.
This practice is more than art it’s a spiritual return to voice and presence. What I lost in writing, I rediscovered in this tactile, layered expression. My mixed media works are visual journals of survival and transformation.
In stitching silence into story, I continue to heal. And in each woven piece, I hope others see not just me, but parts of themselves fragmented, resilient, always becoming.