The Living Bones | Untitled 3

My grandmother, Téta, died a painful death from cancer in 1982. I remember the stark contrast between childhood joy – an orange construction paper hat I’d made – and the horrifying image of her vomiting red. Blood, I thought then; Jello, I learned later. The color, nonetheless, became synonymous with her death. She was buried not in our ancestral village of Marjeyoun but in Beirut. Years later, I discovered the cemetery, and with it, her remains had been destroyed in an air raid.

In Hawai’i, where I lived for seventeen years, ancestral bones are sacred, repositories of the spirit. This reverence made me confront the brutal reality of my own loss. Where were her bones? This series is born from that question, a furious excavation of memory and grief. It seeks to unearth the physical and spiritual remains, bringing her and her story back to life. It refuses to soften the harsh edges of death, presenting it as raw and visceral. It is a testament to the enduring power of the spirit; a reminder whispered from the absent bones: we remain. Even as the destruction continues, the work of piecing my grandmother back together continues.