Caught between them were the Berber villagers of Takrouna—families whose homes clung to the limestone slopes, whose ancestors had tilled that rocky soil for generations. When the fighting came, they lost everything: their dwellings shelled, their families scattered, their sacred hill turned into a fortress and then a grave. Theirs is the quietest tragedy, seldom recorded yet always present in the stones and wind of the place.
Through layered collage and torn monotype fragments, Anderson rebuilds that landscape of loss and endurance. The pale blues, greys, and ochres recall both the desert’s brilliance and its desolation. Each fractured surface becomes a field of memory—where the lives of soldiers and villagers alike blur into the same dust.
Takrouna stands silent now. The stones remember the footsteps of soldiers and mothers alike, and the wind carries the lament of those who never returned.