Dina Adnan Asfour

Born 1988 in Gaza, Palestine

I woke up on the morning of October 7 to a call from my mother, trembling in fear. She said, “Dina, turn on the TV, watch what’s happening,” and added a few words that have haunted me ever since: “They will wipe us out.” And that’s where my journey of suffering began as a girl, alone in exile, watching my family endure the harshest of torments.

The events unfolded rapidly—fast, terrifying, and truly horrifying. I was shaking in fear, unable to comprehend what would happen in the coming days. My family started moving from house to house to escape the heavy shelling in Tel Al-Hawa, finally seeking refuge in Al-Quds Hospital. On that fateful morning, I received a message from my sister, Amani, telling me that her building had collapsed. It could have been the end for her. Her house was in Abu Mazen Square, once one of Gaza’s most beautiful and scenic places overlooking the sea. Now, it was gone.

The news kept coming, fast, frightening, and overwhelming. My second sister called to inform me about evacuation orders. Tears, confusion, and chaos followed as families fled for safety. Then came another dark morning with the devastating news about my mother’s house—once the home I dreamed of returning to. It had been elegant, warm, and full of love. But now it was gone, reduced to rubble.

The rapid developments in the war kept hitting harder. My family’s suffering deepened. They had no basic needs—no beds, no pillows, no water, no soap. They had fled Gaza with nothing but sorrow.

I began expressing my sadness through my drawings, depicting my homeland, my longing for my country, and the deep sorrow I felt for what was happening. The most important thing I wanted to convey was the return key, which had been a symbol of my home, my mother’s home, and my sisters’ homes. Even though we have the keys, the homes have been destroyed. But the land will remain ours. I drew to convey my message to the world that though I am in exile, my heart and mind remain in Gaza.

I express my sorrow through my pencil and digital art, depicting the pain and suffering in my heart. My husband and I migrated four years ago, escaping from the war that preceded this one. We’ve lived in constant fear of wars for many years, and much of our lives have been spent fleeing. But this war took our past, present, and future. It stole the best part of us. It came like a black shadow, descending upon the land of magic and beauty—our land, our sea, our swallows, and seagulls. This black shadow blew over Gaza, leaving it a deserted wasteland.

In every painting, I express my emotions, my love, my longing for my country, and my hope for return. Through the key of return, I continue to convey the message that I am here in exile, but my heart and soul are in Gaza.

Dina Asfour has been illustrating her story since the war began. The Gaza Biennale is proud to present her illustrated story as a book for all ages. Her works are beautiful and simple, yet they carry deep meanings. Each piece is a message that Palestinians will not abandon their homes, their land, or keys. Within her illustrations lies a voice for the pain and grief that she carries.

These are some of the works in the book:

The painting Gaza, A Girl Burning expresses my feelings towards the burning of Gaza. When the people of Gaza suffered, it felt like the whole city was burning, not just one person. The key of return bleeds with Gaza’s pain.

In Longing for My Home, I show a beautiful girl with long hair and calm features, wearing traditional attire. She is surrounded by swallows, her sorrowful eyes looking at her burning country. Her home is being erased from the map, and all that remains is ash. But we will not abandon Gaza, and we will keep the key of return close.

Children of Gaza expresses my pain and my tears for Gaza. It is a cartoonish style, but each piece conveys a deep message: we will not abandon our homes, land, and our key. I cry while speaking of Gaza, of my home, but there is no home left in Gaza. Yet, the land remains, and I pray for a return.

In Nakba of the Century, the rage of silence, betrayal, and pain is expressed. The scarf of the kaffiyeh, a symbol of our heritage, combined with the key I always carry as a badge of honor, represents the history of our first nakba and the many decades of bloodshed and oppression. And now, we face the nakba of our time.