I’m the storyteller of my own stories. My body, too, is a storyteller, full of memories, and continually challenging the world. A great part of the battles I had to fight as a woman raised in an Islamic society was about the body and sex. The mutual impacts of my body with religion, politics, the city in which I grew up, and the traditions made me realise that a body — the house of our souls — is filled with memory. The body is us and it won’t abandon us. Our memories are a pen, constantly inscribing on our body. Sometimes we tend to erase more painful memories, and sometime to reread the memories in a new light. The attempt to erase or reread helps us to survive. We are also living as the continuation of the memories of people before us. Each form, shape, colour, sound, and volume contains words which can connect with memories of our bodies. In an artistic encounter, a static statue or some such form can bring a lived and dynamic experience which revives the words and colours from the past.
No doubt that a great chunk of our memories have the family structure, pertinent to the very ovum of which our being takes shape. For me, a portion of my creativity lies in the pains and suffering I’ve endured as a human being. This doesn’t mean that any pain can lead to creativity, but in my view, creativity is inseparable from human suffering.
In each human being, pain and energy are closely interconnected like the links of a chain. My body, too, contains both elements, and as a woman, my body is like a metaphor for the philosophy of life.