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Refugees Come in Many Colours
This piece is a punch in the gut. A reminder. A protest. A truth I lived with my own eyes and ears.
I called it “Refugees Come in Many Colours” because the world often pretends not to see that. I was in the camps. I walked those muddy paths. I shared food, silence, cold, and rage with people whose stories will never make the front pages. Syrians, Afghans, Sudanese, Congolese. People fleeing horror. War. Genocide. But they weren’t blond. They didn’t have blue eyes. And so, Europe shut the door.
Then Ukraine happened. Suddenly, borders opened. Trains waited. Hotels offered rooms. And don’t get me wrong — solidarity is beautiful — but racism wrapped in compassion is still racism. This painting is a slap to that hypocrisy.
The bones here are loud. They shout. They scream without mouths. I painted skeletons because that’s what borders reduce us to. Bones. Stripped of context, of culture, of dignity. But look closer — these bones have colour, expression, emotion. Some are broken. Some are tangled. Some still reach for each other. There’s a blonde skeleton near the centre, a deliberate contrast, because even when we’re all stripped bare, we’re not treated equally.
This isn’t just a painting. It’s a memory. A collective one. A demand. A cry for the people I met in Calais. For the children in the mud. For the mothers carrying everything they had in a plastic bag. For those who died in silence.
I made this because I couldn't keep still.
Because even in war, there’s room for racism.
And because art — my art — refuses to stay quiet.
Refugees Come in Many Colours
This piece is a punch in the gut. A reminder. A protest. A truth I lived with my own eyes and ears.
I called it “Refugees Come in Many Colours” because the world often pretends not to see that. I was in the camps. I walked those muddy paths. I shared food, silence, cold, and rage with people whose stories will never make the front pages. Syrians, Afghans, Sudanese, Congolese. People fleeing horror. War. Genocide. But they weren’t blond. They didn’t have blue eyes. And so, Europe shut the door.
Then Ukraine happened. Suddenly, borders opened. Trains waited. Hotels offered rooms. And don’t get me wrong — solidarity is beautiful — but racism wrapped in compassion is still racism. This painting is a slap to that hypocrisy.
The bones here are loud. They shout. They scream without mouths. I painted skeletons because that’s what borders reduce us to. Bones. Stripped of context, of culture, of dignity. But look closer — these bones have colour, expression, emotion. Some are broken. Some are tangled. Some still reach for each other. There’s a blonde skeleton near the centre, a deliberate contrast, because even when we’re all stripped bare, we’re not treated equally.
This isn’t just a painting. It’s a memory. A collective one. A demand. A cry for the people I met in Calais. For the children in the mud. For the mothers carrying everything they had in a plastic bag. For those who died in silence.
I made this because I couldn't keep still.
Because even in war, there’s room for racism.
And because art — my art — refuses to stay quiet.