Recently‭, ‬amidst the missile attacks‭, ‬I found myself immersed in my backyard‭, ‬working on a rug that simulates a curtain‭, ‬simulating a space that is no more‭.‬

A memorial space for the fallen‭: ‬the back room in my grandmother’s house in Hadera‭.‬

The large rug depicts the memory of a back wall‭: ‬a small seating area on a peach-colored carpet‭, ‬an antique wall clock‭, ‬and a large window‭, ‬covered by an almost entirely opaque curtain‭.‬

My grandmother‭, ‬who lost her son‮—‬my father’s brother‮—‬in the Yom Kippur War‭, ‬used to tell me‭: "‬To lose a son is a hole in the heart‭, ‬and the blood never stops flowing‭."‬

This‭ '‬rug-curtain‭' ‬and the rest of the tufted rugs‮—‬bearing images of the Declaration of Independence‭, ‬a KKL-JNF tree-planting certificate‭, ‬a graduation photo from‭ "‬Hadera‭" ‬High School‭ (‬Class of 1970‭), ‬and a final sepia photograph from the moment of their parting‮—‬are drawn and unraveled by me with threads of memory‭. ‬I work from behind‭, ‬out of uncertainty and partial control‭.‬

Present in the space are also three blackout curtains‭, ‬engravings on milk cartons dipped in blue ink‭, ‬a stove made of black clay‭, ‬and a burnt pita‭.‬

Through these acts of processing memory within the works‭, ‬I attempt to reclaim control over fate‮—‬as my eldest son enlists in the‭ ‬army‭.‬