I am not myself, not Buthayna Ali, not a body, not a woman, not a Muslim, not a Syrian, not an Arab…
    many prisons forces itself upon me.    

    They are combined in me, melting me, turning me into hard and fluid forms.
    Hard to defend my existence, while fluid to escape, through my work, away from those jails.

    One day I had to choose my purpose, I chose art.
    When I stood up,
    I was standing on a ground full of needles.
    But my femininity shouted colors.
    Full of blood and damage, full of repetition and stability,
    full of hate and only words for love.

    I started my career as a painter.
    But painting was not enough for me to deliver my messages.
    Being aware that art has taken over traditions and has set its tools free,
    I recognized that I was chained.
    So why not to take the advantages of this new artistic path, to convey my thoughts, and to interact
    with my viewers!

    It was then that I understood that I was a mother,
    They tried to veil my womb,
    But I begat! I begat kids! That can’t be executed.
    Not by politics, by religion, nor by money.