Print Club. April 2026: The Hills That Witnessed

⏱️ 10 minute read

The April 2026 edition of the Print Club. is on its way. This month, I sent The Hills That Witnessed, a piece I created as a direct response to the ongoing wars in the Middle East and the continuous suffering in Palestine. This is not a neutral blog. This is a personal statement, from my work and from my conviction.

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How this work came to be

While working on this painting, I couldn't shake off the images. Airstrikes on Iran. Hospitals in Gaza being bombed. Children under rubble. Families fleeing without knowing where to go. These are not abstract geopolitical facts; these are people. And those people deserve to be seen, even in art.

According to the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), more than 50,000 Palestinians have been killed in Gaza since October 2023, the vast majority of whom are civilians. More than 90% of the population has been internally displaced. The World Health Organization (WHO) has repeatedly documented attacks on hospitals and medical infrastructure, which constitutes a violation of international humanitarian law as laid down in the Geneva Conventions.

Amnesty International concluded that the treatment of the Palestinian population amounts to apartheid and crimes against humanity. Human Rights Watch made similar findings. The International Court of Justice (ICJ) ruled in January 2024 that South Africa's case of genocide against Israel is "plausible" and ordered provisional measures.

These are not opinions. These are documented facts from the most authoritative international institutions in the world.

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The painting: a figure without a name

In The Hills That Witnessed, a solitary figure moves through a vast, red landscape. The cloak flutters in the wind. No face, no identity, no clear destination. Only movement. Only the decision to keep going.

That anonymity is deliberate. As soon as you add a face, it becomes a portrait of one person. Without a face, it becomes a portrait of everyone. The Palestinian mother carrying her child through rubble. The Iranian student protesting in the street. The Syrian refugee who has lived in a camp for ten years. The Yemeni father trying to feed his family under a blockade. They are all in that figure.

The hills in the title are not a decorative element. Hills bear witness. They have stood for centuries, long before borders were drawn, long before names changed, long before bombs fell. They will still be there when this is over. That timeless perspective is embedded in the work.

The red hues in this work symbolize both destruction and resilience. Red is blood, but red is also fire that gives warmth. Red is danger, but red is also the color of the earth itself, of life, of soil where people have their roots. The landscape feels harsh and endless, but the figure continues. That perseverance became the heart of this painting. Not hopelessness, but endurance.

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A political statement, not neutral art

I don't believe in neutral art when the world is burning. And I understand the reflex to keep art out of politics, to say: "art is for everyone, art connects, art should not take sides." But that neutrality is itself a choice. Silence is also taking a stand.

Art history is full of works that refused to be silent. Picasso's Guernica (1937) was a direct indictment of the bombing of the Basque city by Nazi Germany and the Franco regime. Käthe Kollwitz spent her life making work about poverty, war, and loss, from an explicitly socialist perspective. Francisco Goya painted the horrors of the Napoleonic wars in Spain with a directness that shocked his contemporaries. Banksy creates his work on the walls of the West Bank.

Art that takes a stand is no less art. Sometimes, it is even more so.

The attacks on Gaza are not a conflict between two equal parties. It is an occupation that has lasted for more than 75 years, recognized as such by the UN in dozens of resolutions. It is collective punishment of a civilian population, which is explicitly prohibited under Article 33 of the Fourth Geneva Convention. It is the systematic destruction of civilian infrastructure: schools, hospitals, water supply systems, universities, libraries.

More than 130 journalists have been killed in Gaza since October 2023, according to the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), the highest number in a single conflict in modern journalistic history.

I condemn that. Unequivocally. And I condemn the political leaders, both in the region and in the West, who enable this by supplying weapons, casting vetoes in the UN Security Council, or simply remaining silent. The Netherlands supplied F-35 parts to Israel for years, until the Court of Appeal in The Hague ruled in 2024 that this had to stop due to the risk of violations of international humanitarian law. That judgment was a historic moment, but also an indictment: we knew it, and we did it anyway.

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Art as a witness

The title The Hills That Witnessed is about testimony. About the fact that there is always something that sees, even when people look away. The hills saw it. Art sees it. And you, as a viewer, now see it too.

There is a long tradition of art bearing witness to injustice. Mexican muralists Diego Rivera and José Clemente Orozco made their work explicitly political, in response to colonialism and class inequality. The Harlem Renaissance used art as an instrument of dignity and resistance against racism. In the contemporary context, there are artists like Larissa Sansour, a Palestinian-Danish artist whose work depicts the Palestinian experience through science fiction and documentary aesthetics, and Sliman Mansour, one of the most influential Palestinian painters, whose work focuses on the connection to the land and identity.

These artists create work from a direct personal experience that I do not have and cannot claim. But I can show solidarity. I can refuse to be silent.

The Hills That Witnessed is my contribution to that tradition of testimony. Small, perhaps. But present.

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Casablanca and what I learned there

At the beginning of April, I spent a weekend in Casablanca. I walked through the medina, drank tea with people I had just met, listened to stories in a language I didn't fully understand but still felt.

Casablanca is a city of contrasts. The Hassan II Mosque, one of the largest in the world, stands on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. Right next to it are neighborhoods where people live in conditions rarely seen in the Netherlands. The city is modern and old at the same time, Western and deeply Arabic, poor and rich, loud and quiet.

What struck me was how different everything looked on the surface, and how identical everything was underneath. The same desire for safety. The same love for family. The same fear of loss. The same hope that tomorrow will be better than today. People in Casablanca follow the news from Gaza with an engagement and pain that I rarely feel so directly in the Netherlands. It's not far away for them. It's close. Culturally, religiously, humanly.

That experience became inextricably linked to this work. The figure in the painting does not represent a specific person, country, or religion. It is something universal. Human perseverance. The quiet strength of continuing, even when everything around you collapses.

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The color red: an art-historical note

Red is one of the most charged colors in art history. It is the color of blood, of danger, of passion, of revolution. In the iconography of Western art, red stands for martyrdom and sacrifice. In Chinese culture, it stands for good fortune and prosperity. In the Arab world, red has complex connotations of both danger and strength.

Mark Rothko, one of the greatest color field painters of the twentieth century, used red to create emotional depth that words cannot reach. His red canvases are both oppressive and liberating. In The Hills That Witnessed, I use red not as a decorative element but as an emotional language. The landscape is red because the landscape has suffered. But it is also red because it is still alive. Red is the color of flowing blood, of a beating heart, of fire that gives warmth.

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Why I chose this work for the Print Club.

I could have sent a safe piece. Something beautiful, something decorative, something that means nothing. But that felt dishonest, both to you as a member of the Print Club. and to myself as an artist.

The Print Club. is more than a subscription for me. It is a direct connection between my work and the people who want to receive it. You consciously choose to bring a piece of my world into your home every month. I take that trust seriously. And that also means that I am honest about what occupies me, even if it is uncomfortable.

I believe that art can also be a moment of reflection. A reminder that even in times of division, our shared humanity is stronger than the things that divide us. But that shared humanity also demands something of us. It demands that we do not look away. That we do not normalize. That we keep saying: this is not right.

The Hills That Witnessed is my way of saying that.

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What you can do

Looking at art is a start. But if you want to go further, there are organizations that provide direct assistance to people in Gaza and the wider region:

• UNRWA – the UN agency for Palestinian refugees
• Doctors Without Borders – active in Gaza and surrounding areas
• War Child Netherlands – focuses on children in conflict areas
• Oxfam Novib – humanitarian aid and structural poverty reduction

You don't have to solve everything. But you can do something.

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About the Print Club.

The Print Club. is a monthly subscription where you receive a selected, limited print from KOJO Art each month, sent directly from me to your door. Each edition is accompanied by a personal letter with the context behind the work. No algorithm, no wholesaler, no middleman. Just an artist sharing his work with people who want to receive it.

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Frequently Asked Questions

What is the KOJO Art Print Club.?

The Print Club. is a monthly subscription where members receive a limited, selected print from KOJO Art each month, including a personal letter from Jordy Koumans about the work and its context.

What is The Hills That Witnessed?

The Hills That Witnessed is a painting by Jordy Koumans, created in response to the ongoing unrest in the Middle East. It depicts a solitary figure in a red landscape as a symbol of human resilience and perseverance in times of conflict.

Why does KOJO Art create politically charged art?

Jordy Koumans believes that art does not have to be neutral. Art has a long history as an instrument of testimony, protest, and solidarity. The Hills That Witnessed fits into that tradition, from Picasso's Guernica to contemporary Palestinian art.

What do the red hues in the work symbolize?

The red hues represent both destruction and resilience. Red is the color of blood and danger, but also of fire, warmth, and life. The landscape is harsh, but the figure continues. That contrast is at the core of the work.

Can I still order a print of The Hills That Witnessed?

The Print Club. editions are limited and exclusive to members. Check the print collection for available works, or become a member of the Print Club. for future editions.

Does KOJO Art ship outside the Netherlands?

Yes, KOJO Art ships worldwide. The Print Club. is available to everyone, no matter where they are.

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