It was rainy that December day as I stood against a crumbling wall on Gaza’s Omar Mukhtar Street, waiting for a friend. As raindrops fell, I studied the wall. It had stood through ancient conflicts as well as the attacks now central to my life and the lives of all Palestinians. Embedded in this old wall were numerous stories; somehow, I wanted to tell them through my art.

When I got home, my eyes fell on the new blank canvas sitting on the easel in my bedroom. Initially, I intended to make a realistic painting of the wall. But the more I painted, the more abstract it got. This paradox intrigued me. Once I finished the painting, I adored it! Although it is not one of the prettiest pictures I have ever painted, every time I look at it, I discover hidden meanings. Sometimes it leaves me feeling nostalgic for the times I spent with friends who have left Gaza to pursue their education abroad. Its colors remind me of the old café where my friends and I met for the last time as a group and promised each other not to be sad or cry. It was the last promise we made to each other before we became busy with our lives. Even though I keep in touch with them, the painting reminds me of how much I need to be with them. Feelings of nostalgia give way to loneliness.

But most of the time, the painting reminds me that I am trapped within the walls that surround Gaza. It reminds me of when I was 17 and overjoyed to receive a scholarship to attend a summer camp for high school students at the University of North Georgia (USA). Like every other Gazan youth, I dreamt of getting an opportunity like this, to experience another part of the world. Yet before Gazans can travel abroad, we must first journey to Jordan, since there is no airport in Palestine and Gazans are not permitted to fly out of Israel. And before we can travel to Jordan, it must give us an entry permit and a “No Objection” certificate.

After Jordan denied me both documents without explanation, I fell into a deep depression. This was the first time I had ever been depressed. I felt like I was trapped, with no hope of escape. Before Jordan denied me entry, I had a dream; after that, I believed it was hopeless ever to dream again. My inability to travel to the United States for summer camp when I was a child is just one consequence of Israel’s occupation of Palestine, including its blockade of Gaza.

When I look at my painting, the first thing I see are walls behind walls. This reminds me of the invisible prison walls that deprive Gazans of our simplest rights. The dark pattern that dominates the canvas is a metaphor for the depressing lives we Palestinians live. Consider this: Unemployment in Gaza is over 50%; several of my friends have been looking for work for months without success. In addition, right now,  we only get eight hours of electricity a day. And there have been times when electricity has been limited to four hours a day. There is never enough to pursue our lives the way we would like to.

Looking closer at the painting, you can see two intersecting strips forming four corners at the bottom left. They remind me of the corners of my house and the times we sheltered there during Israeli attacks. One attack I will never forget occurred on the night of Eid al-Fitr. The bombing was heavy and explosions seemed to be everywhere. Even though I had already survived three previous attacks on Gaza and thought I had become used to them, that day was terrifying in a new way. To prepare for whatever emergency came, my family and I collected our ID cards, passports and other important documents in case we were notified by Israeli soldiers that our home was about to be bombed. That night felt different and weird. I felt compelled to check every corner of my house to secure the memories, in case these were my last moments in our home.

But my painting does not just remind me of suffering and hardship. The white color I splattered throughout and across the middle and bottom of the canvas represents hope. Like other youths here, I am dedicated to educate myself, to work hard for our country, and, one day, to end the occupation.

I love how my painting tells so many stories. I love how it does not dictate a clear narrative, but rather offers fragments that we can make into what we want. Looking at the painting in this light, I realize that it reveals the essence of the Palestinian struggle as inscribed on Gaza’s  real walls — walls that remind me not only of suffering through the siege and the fear I experienced in previous Israeli attacks, but also the beauty of my homeland and the hope that one day we will be free.