The painting shows a house. A housing block in a Parisian suburb. The facade is crumbling, the plaster is peeling off. It looks abandoned, though it was once full of life. I remember the house, the tight space, the heat. Four of us slept in one room. The family was poor. But there was always plenty to eat. The mother always served us more. The food was a sign.

The painting is gray. A lot of gray, little light. There is no sky, no sun. The suburb was a place without hope. For me, it was the first time I had seen anything like that. I came from a different world. From the center. From security. There, nothing was secure. You didn’t know what the next day would bring. There was no money, no work. Only prayer. Always prayer. Facing Mecca.

The painting shows no people. Only the house. It represents everything I didn’t understand back then. What was foreign to me. But also what I learned. That there is a life that has nothing to do with mine. The painting is my memory.

The house is just a shell. But it carries the story within it. It is the place where I learned how different lives can be. It is the place where I saw strength. It’s not just my exchange student’s house. It is a house within me.

Abdel’s House