I am a journalist; storytelling is my craft.

Words are the tools I turn to, again and again, to make sense of events and shape them into narratives that do them justice. And yet, when it comes to the genocide in Gaza, my birthplace, language feels wholly inadequate.

There is a limit to what words can say. At a certain point, the instinct to describe, to explain and to make sense of what has unfolded begins to break down under the sheer scale of devastation and pain.

One scene from the start of the war has lingered in my mind: A bulldozer burying 111 unidentified bodies, wrapped in bright blue bags, in a mass grave. It appeared briefly in the endless scroll of social media before it disappeared again, replaced by yet another shocking scene. And another.

A hundred and eleven souls about whom we knew nothing; not their names, not their dreams or what their final moments were. A New York Times headline read: More Than 100 Bodies Are Delivered to a Mass Grave in Southern Gaza. Omission of the perpetrator aside, could that possibly capture the magnitude of such an event?

Every attempt to describe in words what Israel has inflicted on Gaza and its people has felt reductive, compressing something vast, ongoing and staggeringly lethal into language that cannot possibly hold it. What remains is a tension at the heart of the act of telling itself; knowing no account will ever be enough, how do you tell stories of such unspeakable horrors?

This tension lies at the heart of the Gaza Genocide Tapestry, which I am co-curating and which will be displayed at this year’s Venice Biennale. It is an art project that brings together Palestinian women in occupied Palestine and refugee camps in Lebanon and Jordan to document Gaza’s destruction in real time. They tell these stories in the way they know best: Needle and thread.

Through 100 embroidered panels, each composed of 55,000 stitches, these women have created a testimonial that refuses to let the world forget what has been done and to whom.

Each panel tells a fragment of what has happened: A journalist weeping over his child’s dead body; young girls with empty pots being crushed at a soup kitchen; a child crying as her world crumbles around her.

Some of these images forced themselves into the public consciousness, if only for a moment; Khalid Nabhan hugging his dead granddaughter, the “soul of his soul”, for the last time before joining her a year later, or Dr Hussam Abu Safia walking towards a tank on the orders of Israeli soldiers, to then never be seen again.

But most images from Gaza are not granted that pause. They pass without names, context or farewell.

The tapestry defies this. To embroider is to decide something is worth the effort – hours, days and weeks of labour. This is to insist it is not lost to the sheer volume of images that pass briefly before our eyes.

A national archive in thread

The Gaza Genocide Tapestry is a new chapter of the award-winning Palestine History Tapestry Project, which I co-chair alongside Gaza-born designer Ibrahim Muhtadi. Following in the tradition of the famous Bayeux Tapestry and the Great Tapestry of Scotland, it is the largest body of Palestinian embroidery narrating the history of Palestine and its people.

The tapestry was started in 2011 in Oxford by Jan Chalmers, a British nurse who lived and worked in Gaza for two years in the 1960s. An avid embroiderer, Jan was previously involved with the Keiskamma History Tapestry, which chronicles the history of South Africa’s Xhosa people and now hangs in the South African parliament.

Recognising the centuries-old embroidery tradition of Palestinians, tatreez, Jan believed a Palestinian history tapestry was in order. I met Jan in 2013 in Oxford during my postgraduate studies. That is when I first joined this invaluable effort.

Tatreez, recognised by UNESCO in 2021, has long expressed Palestinian heritage and belonging. Its motifs encoded identity, place and social status. After the 1948 Nakba, it became a means of preserving Palestinian culture in the face of attempted erasure. Today it is something else again: Testimony.

Not long after Israel unleashed its devastating military assault on Gaza in 2023, the tapestry found new momentum by merging with the Palestine Museum US, an independent institution founded and led by Palestinian American entrepreneur Faisal Saleh. The tapestry is now housed at the museum in Woodbridge, Connecticut, and travels from there for exhibits worldwide.

It was within this expanded framework that the Gaza Genocide Tapestry took shape. Jan, Ibrahim, Faisal, and I came together to discuss how best to document the genocide. We initially created two panels to mark this dark moment in Palestinian history – Gaza on Fire and The Palestinian Phoenix. Faisal then proposed we do 100 panels focused solely on Gaza.

The challenge of producing in a single year what had previously taken a decade was formidable, but it was an urgency dictated by an unfolding genocide and made possible by the scale, visibility and global reach the museum provided.

United in pain

Women in Gaza were initially among the most active contributors to the Palestine History Tapestry. Their work was vibrant and meticulous, and offered them a means of support. But as bombardment intensified, most became unreachable, often displaced multiple times. Materials could not enter Gaza, and finished panels could not leave.

Gaza’s women became the subjects of the story, rather than its narrators.

But the tapestry, at its core, is a kind of “lam shamel” (Arabic for family reunion), as one embroiderer put it. Despite borders and forced displacement, the labour of Palestinian women everywhere converges into a single visual record of the Palestinian experience.

For Iman Shehabi, Basma Natour and the dozen women in Ein el-Hilweh refugee camp, embroidery is how they make a living. But the tapestry project, they said, “restored” a part of their “dignity”.

“It was a space where heritage pulsed, and where our needles stitched both our pains and our hopes,” they wrote to us in a letter upon completion of their panels.

And it is not only the embroiderers who contributed. One of the panels in the Gaza Genocide Tapestry, embroidered by Shahla Mahareeq in Ramallah, was based on an image of Hind Rajab illustrated by London-based artist Khadija Said.

A panel of blindfolded men, arbitrarily detained by Israeli soldiers in Gaza, was painted by Haifa-based lawyer and rights activist Janan Abdu, a Palestinian citizen of Israel. It was embroidered by Bothaina Youssef in Lebanon’s Ein el-Hilweh refugee camp.

Another artwork by Gaza-based artist Mohammed Alhaj, depicting displacement in Gaza, was also embroidered in Lebanon by Kifah Kurdieh, before a million people in southern Lebanon were themselves displaced.

The process of putting together the Gaza Genocide Tapestry has been painstaking. For more than a year, Faisal, Jan, Ibrahim and I held weekly meetings to research and select representative panels across various themes and coordinate the work. Each panel had to be translated by Ibrahim into a format that could be embroidered, then sent to a woman to stitch through field coordinators in each location.

There were constant questions, both ethical and practical. What do we choose to include, and what is left out? What does it mean to translate suffering into a stitched pattern?

At the Venice Biennale

Starting May 9, the Gaza Genocide Tapestry will be exhibited publicly at Palazzo Mora under the title:
“- – – – – – – – – – -” *
*Gaza – No Words – See The Exhibit

It will be available for viewing through November.

When we were informed in November last year that our biennale submission was selected, I felt a complicated kind of recognition. On one hand, it is an honour and a chance for this work, and the women behind it, to be seen on one of the world’s most prominent cultural stages.

On the other hand, it captured the paradox of a world increasingly willing to name what is happening in Gaza, to look it in the eye, call it a genocide, and yet remain unable or unwilling to stop it. What does it say about humanity when art becomes a primary site of real-time testimony because political systems have failed?

I have no simple answer. What I know is this: Palestinian women continue to tell these stories and demand accountability. Theirs is a collective response to my late mentor Refaat Alareer’s final instruction before he was killed: “If I must die, you must live to tell my story.”