Sitara

Sitara means star — the one thing in the sky that doesn't belong to whoever's standing under it. Not to one side of a border, not to one language, not to one family's version of the story.

The print holds one scene: a line of figures, painted in gold, teal, rose, and charcoal, standing shoulder to shoulder behind a stretch of barbed wire. Above them, a row of eyes — watching, witnessing, refusing to look away — and a single six-point star that doesn't belong to any one figure. It's there for all of them.

We wanted a piece that didn't shy away from the harder half of the diaspora story — the borders, the visa lines, the family members who've never been allowed in the same room — without leaving people there. The star is the point. Whatever the wire says about who gets divided from whom, the people underneath it are still looking up at the same sky.

It carries the same سکون mark as every piece we make, stitched small at the chest — a reminder that peace and the star above it were never anyone's alone to claim. Cut oversized in heavyweight ivory fleece, so the real statement is saved for the back, for the room to walk into after you.