Traveling Without an Address
An Iraqi Artist Paints His Way Across Five Countries
Story by Sarmad Al Musawi, Written by Naz Hussein, Edited by Dainelis Rodriguez
Sarmad Al Musawi is a painter, sculptor, and ceramic artist from Iraq. Based in Michigan, Sarmad leads a company called Sarmad Arts dedicated to his artistic endeavors and immigrant experience. His work has been critically acclaimed and featured in the media. He is also a graduate of WeaveTales’s New American Speakers Program and a part of the advisory board. For more details about Sarmad’s work, please visit his website.
I grew up in Baghdad, Iraq as the younger brother of two. As a child, I let my imagination fly. On the school bus in kindergarten, I silently watched my beautiful city swivel by. During class, I sat next to the window and listened to raindrops plop onto tree leaves. I observed the sky, stars, moon, trees, and stones, scrutinizing their shapes and movements. Somehow, I knew I was designed to be an artist.
My mother inspired me. When she returned home from work, she would bring a collection of books for my brother and me. The colorful pages transported us to other worlds. Oftentimes, we would exchange books or discuss lively stories. We were like flowers that lived in a garden. As we grew, so did our libraries.
During the 1980s, I heard my parents talking about “war”. I never understood the true meaning of this word, until the sounds of war invaded our homes. The warning sirens were more terrifying than the actual bombs, but both tainted my childhood. During the war, my family frequently met around a candle which was the only source of light in our rooms. We continued to read and nurture our creativity, growing numb to the explosives around us.
After my father passed away when I was 10, my mother became my whole world. She taught me to love reading, and through reading, I learned how to analyze concepts, especially artistic work and philosophy. She unconditionally supported me, praising my artwork even if it was simple. Her advice resembled a lamp illuminating my journey’s dark path.
The ideas of traitors steal hundreds of children from their mothers… The ideas of extremists scatter the features of childhood on the pages of dirt and sidewalk stones. Mothers come to collect the moments of motherhood that the traitor had killed for the throne.
The journey, which was my displacement, began in Baghdad. The situation became too precarious for me to stay. I traveled to Jordan by bus then settled in Amman for three years. Throughout my time, I absorbed rich details of heritage and culture, meeting various people. Years later, however, I still couldn’t find my homeland, so I decided to search for a new one. I packed my bags and flew to Dubai for a fresh beginning.
A group of friends decided to emigrate and search for a new home that would shelter them and give them warmth, love, and peace. Before leaving, the friends decided to take a group photo to remember this moment when they arrived at their new home.
On a dark night, they climbed onto the back of their modest boat and in the middle of the beautiful journey, as they approached their new home full of dreams and ambitions, the boat capsized and their dreams were scattered over the waves to reach the coast of the new homeland. Nothing remains from them, only this photo, which was taken before the migration.
In Dubai, I blossomed immensely. I worked in various fields and organizations, trying to build myself up. I connected with people from different cultures and became exposed to a diverse artistic space. I improved my talent daily through effort and hard work. I visited numerous art galleries, reached out to fellow creatives, researched several schools of art, and watched documentaries about prolific artists. I won distinguished prizes such as the Burda, an international award and ceremony covered by TV channels and official newspapers.
Time passed. I got married and had children, who went to school and sung the national anthem of the United Arab Emirates (UAE).
Twenty years later, I found myself forcibly removed from Dubai. I was told that this place was no longer my home, and suddenly, I had to depart within the span of eight hours. I left everything behind: my house, furniture, paintings, sculptures, and ceramics. My children’s toys remained littered on the floor; their clothes, school bags, and books lay neatly untouched. Their friends, memories, and dreams all faded away. Our cars were still parked in the garage of the house as we walked away with travel bags on our shoulders.
We set out for Morocco: my fourth journey. On the way there, I was robbed. I lost valuable items such as my artwork, educational certificates, personal documents, and laptop. Fortunately, I had made several copies of my artwork and was able to retrieve a large number of them. Even so, the incident proved traumatizing and difficult.
When I arrived in Morocco, I was in a state of great shock. I couldn’t speak for three days. Slowly, I acclimated to my new environment and arranged for a new studio. Once settled, I attempted to paint. Instead, I placed the blank canvas on the wall and stared at it for two days. On the third day, I entered my studio, grabbed the paintbrush, and started drawing without thinking. I immediately left.
I returned to the painting and discovered that somebody else had created it. I, Sarmad, had never drawn in that way, style, or shapes before. Because of the trauma, another human had emerged. Yet, my art allowed me to transform the negative effects of the shock into positive results. I began a new artistic stage, studying the framework of the modern expressionist school.
Waiting for the unknown is like freezing time. Sometimes a person waits for death as his mercy to him to relieve him from all the pain that he encircles in his sleep oscillating between life and slow death.
After two years in Morocco, I still did not find my homeland. My family and I decided to start the fifth journey to a new country, different from the previous ones.
I moved to the United States in 2015 and resettled in Michigan. I found a wider range of intellectual freedom in America through the expression of art, abstract ideas, personal opinions, and political trends. The freedom allowed me to expand my imagination and creativity. I formulated my distinct artistic style and scored first place in multiple contests across different art galleries. Currently, I am studying to obtain a second bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts (as a studio artist).
Is freedom a concept related to the body? Or the soul? Or the mind? Or is freedom just an inner feeling that a person enjoys in convincing himself of the prison he lives in societies that impose intellectual restrictions on him and make him an obedient being walking towards the unknown?
I work in the brutal expressionist school because it resonates with my vision. I do not draw people or things as they seem. I paint through my own eyes, and I represent people according to their behavior.
I draw a person from the inside, irrespective of their external appearance. I depict expressive states symbolic of reality. I translate events and situations into shapes and colors that many deem strange and sometimes brutal. But I paint for myself: to express the emotions and memories inside of me. I do not paint to please others. As long as I remain true to myself, I am satisfied.
Throughout my migration journey, art was the only window through which I could breathe air. When I approach the white canvas to draw my new subject, I am like a crying child with a simple dream. When I complete my painting, I sense a feeling of victory, as if I’ve climbed another step on the ladder of success.
Every moment I draw, I feel that I am alive. I feel that I exist and that I am an active element in society.
Despite my long journey, I am still searching for my homeland. The real homeland exists inside of me, and my creativity is a vehicle for self-realization. Every day, I inhale and exhale art.
“I do not know anything about marriage, except that the bride wears a white dress and goes to her marriage house.”
“Marriage is a white dress permeated with joy”
This is what the child bride said before her marriage while she was in her dream age.
Bodies that suffer under the name of a “legal marriage”. Dreams are killed under the name of a “legal marriage”. childhood is erased. under the name of a “legal marriage”.
