"Where to?" Ismail Shammout's painting tells a story of Palestinian suffering

The middle one lags behind his ashen father, clutching his terrified heart, his head bowed like a mourning flag; he cannot fathom that the family's white horse, which would usually be pulling his father's cart, was dead – not because of old age or seasonal pangs of starvation, but by ruthless bullets that found their mark between his eyes, extinguishing his vigour.

The eldest child, his eyes hollow, gazes intently at his father's shattered face, struggling to comprehend how he could leave his mother's lifeless form under the debris, unburied; how he could leave the bloodied horse near the well; how he could leave the village drowning in the ominous October air.

The father, grief-stricken and robbed of assurances, grips his eldest's hand with the solemnity of a man who recognises the inevitability of his firstborn slipping away at any moment, heading back towards a village torn in the light of day from its rightful owners.

His eldest stares directly at him, but his father's eyes are fixed ahead; he's avoiding the burning question in his son's eyes: Where to?

The man clings to his cane like a seed he could plant in unfamiliar ground to reclaim a territory forcibly ripped away. Perhaps his cane could blossom into a tree that reminds him of the lush greenery of the village he left behind.

Waking nightmare

The youngest child drifts into a restless slumber on his father's left shoulder, grappling with nightmares whether he's awake or asleep.

Perhaps he dreams of his home – of his mother telling him stories. He dreams of the wooden ceiling of his room, the sanctuary of lullabies, the defunct wall clock and the simmering teapot on a gas flame.

The middle child, trailing behind his father, refrains from lifting his head in a bid to shield himself from the harsh reality: they are stranded in a desert, where whispers of a drought are deafening. Hoping against hope, he yearns for his father to stop and turn them around, marching them back in the direction of their green village and shattering this hopeless hallucination.

On the verge of tears, he mourns what could have been. Mourns the celebrations he once dreamed of. Gone are his plans to water the bloom on the hill and gift it to the neighbour's child. Gone are the days of running in a pair of clean shoes in pursuit of elusive butterflies.

A piercing question

The firstborn, alone in his intensity, drills into his father's face with a gaze full of disappointment. His tired father, arms and legs soon to fail him, attempts to escape his relentless inquiry: Where to?

For hours, the tormented man has been drifting with his three children in the blistering midday heat. It feels as if time has stopped; the solitary tree stands in place, refusing to budge from its spot just behind him to the right. The village he abandoned against his will still looms behind him like a hazy illusion, playing tricks on his throbbing head.

The father clings to his cane like a talisman against an unyielding flood, storing within it memories he refuses to leave behind.

Edge of the desert

Balancing on his father's shoulder, the youngest dons a red shirt that was never red. In that nebulous space between waking and dreaming, the little one recalls his pristine white shirt reminiscent of their goat's milk. The goat had died, too, its blood staining his shirt and his youthful naiveté forever.

He tries to surrender to sleep, yearning to reach the oasis promised by his father. He's tired of constantly asking if his mother will be waiting for them at the promised haven, so he drifts off, his questions left hanging in the thick desert smog.

The middle child pays no mind to what's become of his once vibrant shirt, his bowed head busy replaying the scene that unfolded at dawn. The echoes of the horse's final plaintive neigh reverberate in his startled heart.

A lingering uncertainty colours the children's gazes — a hopeless hope to return home.

The eldest child once again echoes his piercing question, tolling a final bell in the face of his father's feigned indifference: Where to?