Surrendering to sleep requires a profound level of trust, as we voluntarily lower our defences and retreat into vulnerability. It is an inherently intimate act, where the public persona falls away, leaving only the raw, unfiltered rhythms of our subconscious and the quiet solitude of dreams.
But how is this deeply personal and basic need shattered during a genocidal war ?
It is this question that drove Palestinian artist Hamada ElKept to embody the reality of those living under the war in Gaza . Through his work, he recreates this experience in a gallery space, inviting visitors not only to confront the physical discomfort of sleep displacement but also to endure the relentless sounds that define nights in Gaza.
Speaking to The New Arab , Hamada — originally from Gaza and based in Brussels since 2023 — reflected on the origins of this artistic direction.
He traced the project's origins to his participation in the Gaza Biennale , supported by Sahab , a creative collective in Gaza. The Biennale, a multi-country European exhibition, later led to a solo show in Valencia, Spain.
While his work has long centred on themes of displacement, Hamada explained that his current style focuses on the quiet, raw reality of 'simple life' under extreme duress. He portrays exhausted and bewildered individuals whose search for basic necessities — such as a drop of water or a piece of bread — defines their existence.
In particular, the figures in his paintings often avert their gaze from the viewer. He noted that these characters are tired of explaining their suffering to an indifferent world.
Instead, they exist within a silent, internal dialogue, marked by confusion and a haunting, collective question: why is this happening to us?
His work also illustrates how people live under genocide and how they continue to create life despite harsh conditions — with no homes, no shops, no streets and no schools.
In this environment, people become one single mass, with all masks, titles and ranks stripped away. The rich and the poor alike are reduced to one shared reality: living in tents .
This shift led Hamada to a simple but difficult question: how do they sleep?
"In normal life, no one thinks about how or where they will sleep; you just go home and put your head down," Hamada tells The New Arab .
"But for those living under genocide, I couldn't imagine it, even though my family and friends are there."
It was this gap between imagination and reality that pushed him to act.
Seeking to bridge the distance between the observer and the observed, Hamada transformed this question into his installation Sleep , alongside other works presented in his solo exhibition Under Surveillance . Shattered silence At first, the gallery space appears calm and familiar. The walls are lined with paintings, and soft pillows are placed throughout, suggesting comfort and rest.
However, this sense of calm is quickly disrupted.
As visitors lean in and press their ear against a pillow, the expected silence is replaced by something far more unsettling: recordings of bombing, screams, pain, and the constant buzzing of Israeli drones .
Explaining how the piece came together, Hamada says: "I asked four of my artist friends — a writer, a singer, and two visual artists — how they prepare for sleep under genocide. They sent me voice notes, each five or six minutes long. It was surreal, as if they weren't living on Earth.
"I decided to place a small speaker inside a pillow. When visitors enter the gallery, they see beautiful paintings and pillows that evoke a sense of comfort. But when they place their ear on the pillow, they hear the story of someone in Gaza. You are standing and conscious, but your head is on a pillow, creating a sensory link to someone sleeping under genocide." The power of sound For Hamada, sound plays a central role in breaking through what he describes as "compassion fatigue," caused by the constant circulation of war images.
To preserve the emotional integrity of the recordings, he chose not to dub them. The voices remain in Arabic, allowing the original tone and weight to come through, from the tremor in the voices to the background sounds of drones and shelling. Translations are placed discreetly beneath each installation.
Reflecting on this choice, he says, "I personally believe sound is deeper than imagery. Sound takes you to a place of imagination and exploration. When you hear a story, you embody the scenes in your mind and feel the struggle more deeply.
"In the gallery, almost everyone who tried the piece ended up crying. When people ask, 'What can I do? How can I help?' I tell them: you know your own strengths better than I do. Do not help Palestine simply because we are Palestinians; help us because we are human beings, just like you."
While much of the war is documented through images of destroyed buildings, Hamada's work deliberately shifts attention towards the internal, psychological impact on those still living through it.
"The work is powerful because it talks about people who are still alive under genocide," he says.
"While we sleep comfortably, they die a hundred deaths, wondering where they will sleep or if they and their children will wake up. The pillow is a symbol of the lost bed, the lost room and the home that is gone." Art as agency Hamada left Gaza four months before the war began in October 2023. Since then, distance has only intensified his sense of responsibility.
"Being away from Palestine has actually given me a greater responsibility," he says.
"I am part of this society, and this is just cause. It pains me that the world seems to be against Gaza and Palestine. In this war alone, I have lost more than seventy people close to me."
He adds, "As an artist in Europe, I have many opportunities, but the real role of art isn't just to create beauty — it is to resist. As a Palestinian, it is my priority to speak for my country. I won't give a minute of my life to other subjects while my country is dying; otherwise, I wouldn't be a real human being."
Like many Palestinian artists, he has grappled with whether art can hold any weight in the face of genocide and war. At times, he stopped working altogether. However, a conversation with his mother in Gaza shifted that perspective.
He explains, "She told me to get up and work. She said they feel strengthened when they see me working. I decided that even if there isn't an immediate result, my role is to deliver the voices of those who are dying.
"It is enough for art to say ‘no’ and reject injustice rather than remain silent."
Despite everything, Hamada insists on holding on to hope. He believes perceptions are beginning to shift, particularly among younger generations.
Looking ahead, as the European tour of his solo exhibition Under Surveillance takes shape, he is already working to expand its reach.
He plans to adapt the Sleep installation into a digital experience on his website, allowing those who cannot attend in person to engage with the work.
Beyond the digital space, his longer-term aim is to bring the installation into the public sphere by placing a bed and pillow directly on the street, confronting passersby with the reality of trying to sleep in Gaza. Tala Halawa is a Palestinian journalist, media trainer, and lecturer with 15+ years in storytelling, podcasts, editorial leadership, and multi-genre content creation Follow her on Instagram: @ talahalawa