I am Eeta Noire.
A multidisciplinary artist born from silence and stitched from survival. Living between borders, raised in Saudi Arabia, I belong to no country. No category. I move as a quiet part of everything. Bound to no one. Connected to all.
I carry diagnoses the world often misunderstands: Schizophrenia. Bipolar Disorder. OCD. Gender Dysphoria. A congenital heart condition. But before the diagnoses came the silence. Before the language, there was poetry.
I began writing in the dark, tucked between Arabic tomes in my father’s library. There were no poetry books. No maps. Only the feeling that something needed to come out of me before it swallowed me whole. Since then, I’ve studied medicine, Greek philosophy, fashion, and literature. Not to find myself, but to unravel what I never understood. I live alone by choice. I travel when the shadows grow too loud. I sit with ruins and listen.
I didn’t choose creation.
It found me, when everything else fell apart.
The more I broke, the more I reached for bold colors,
for heavy stones and silver cuffs,
for thread and flame and quiet resistance.
Crochet is not a hobby.
Painting is not an escape.
They are survival rituals.
Each knot, a breath.
Each brushstroke, a wound dressed in silence.
I create to repair what the world kept tearing open,
one stitch, one verse, one shadow softened into color.
Eeta Noire
Because the Night Won’t End
The poetry started in my teenage years, tucked away in my father’s library, surrounded by Arabic tomes. There were no poetry books. No guides.
Just shadows clinging to the shelves,
whispering in the dark.
Writing wasn’t a hobby, it was survival. A lifeline in the suffocating silence.
From surgery classes to unraveling the threads of history in textiles, every path I’ve taken has left its mark. Now diving into molecular medicine, I continue to embrace the chaos of learning, unafraid to begin again.
When I’m not creating or exploring, I’m feeding my restless mind, chasing knowledge, or sitting among ruins, whispering to ghosts.
I live alone, not to isolate
but to stay honest.
No small talk. No smiling on command.
Only the hush, the hunger, the healing.
And when I travel, it’s not to chase sunsets.
It’s to outrun the whisperers.
To find temporary quiet in unfamiliar air.
But the shadows always catch up.
So I carry thread. I carry charcoal.
And I keep creating.
This is not art for display.
This is how I stay alive.
