Just before the first lockdown, love entered my life and home. Unaware of the virus’s havoc and its effects, I was happy that as long as I am locked in my flat, I have someone I love and someone who loves me. I was tired of being alone; And the thought of sharing life with someone brought me joy. We used to talk for hours, cook and eat together, play Ludo and watch movies. I secretly hoped that the lockdown would continue to increase every week; Completely unaware of people walking to their homes. And then the scenes started coming.
The pictures and videos of our expatriate brothers and sisters impressed me a lot. I was guilty, ashamed, both as a person and as an artist. I felt that the art world’s response to this massive, forced displacement was the best. We were silent; More concerned about our own existential crisis, while fellow citizens walk endlessly, sometimes to their death. In my personal space, cracks began to appear – conversation gave way to conflict, anger replaced joy and, except for a few tender moments of love, a gloomy silence filled our flat. The first lockdown ended with our separation; There were no final goodbyes. This virus was not just killing lives, but changing them forever. The people I knew, the cities I went to, the strangers I met on the subway, buses and markets, everything and everything had changed.
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