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27 Feb 2025
Hana El-Sagini, an artist we have spoken with before, works across painting, installation, and sculpture, delving into themes of memory, trauma, and loss. Her latest exhibition, "Counting Fingers", was deeply personal — an artistic reflection of her experience with breast cancer.
It came, it changed everything — her body, her confidence, her mental health — and then, eventually, it was gone.
Hana opened up to us about how she found out, the stages she went through, and what the hardest part of it all really was (it wasn’t the treatment).
Before we dive in, we find it essential to share these words from Hana:
“One thing I refuse to be called is a cancer survivor. Because you don’t 'fight' cancer. You take the treatment and hope it works. The people who don’t survive aren’t weaker fighters. They just didn’t have the right medical compatibility, or it was just too late.”
It happened in 2022
One of the most important things that happened in 2022 was my decision to study. I earned a scholarship in Switzerland and moved there, balancing intense coursework with travelling back and forth to see my family in Germany. Around that same time, my husband got a job in Dubai and moved there first. I stayed behind to finish my studies. While I was working on my end-of-year sculpture, I got severely injured — a condition called arm drop. I slept one day and woke up with a paralysed right arm, but I had to keep working. A week later, I underwent surgery in Germany and had to stay for ten days to recover. My arm was not back.
Then, during those ten days, I felt something strange in my breast.
Two days after moving to Dubai, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
I was paralysed and had cancer at the same time. I was 40 years old, and my body no longer felt like my own.
“Am I still a woman?”
It felt unreal like this wasn’t happening to me. Cancer was something that happened to other people, not me. It didn’t run in my family. The women in my family live into their nineties, strong and healthy. My first reaction was denial: This isn’t happening.
But I have always been someone who accepts reality quickly. My mindset has always been, “Okay, what’s next?” And also, I always believe things happen for a reason.
What truly challenged me, though, was losing my breast. I kept thinking, “Am I still a woman?” This was the breast I nursed my children with. The one my husband loved. It was a part of my identity. And suddenly, it was gone.
“The hardest round of chemotherapy was the ninth”
The first chemotherapy session was overwhelming — so many unknowns. You anticipate everything: Will I vomit? Will I be exhausted? Will I feel dizzy? It is a flood of emotions and uncertainty.
But the hardest one wasn’t the first — it was the ninth. By then, I had already lost all my hair. I had endured nine rounds of chemo out of the 18, and the thought of going through another nine was unbearable. It felt impossible. That was my breaking point. I sat there thinking, I can’t do this again. I can’t go through this cycle one more time. But, of course, I had to. And I did.
Chemo changed everything. I lost my hair. I gained eight kilos. My body felt unfamiliar like it no longer belonged to me. Before, I was confident — I knew I was attractive. Then, overnight, I became a bald woman with a swollen face. My jawline disappeared. And I saw it in people’s eyes — they no longer recognised me.
And then came the mastectomy — a physically and emotionally difficult surgery on every level. There is no way to fully prepare for it. It is not just the physical pain — it is the mental and emotional weight of losing a part of yourself.
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Photo: Hana's personal archive.
The aftermath
The hardest part wasn’t the treatment. It wasn’t even the physical transformation.
It was what came after.
When the cancer was gone, when the treatments were over, everyone else moved on. And that is when it hit me.
During the illness, I was in survival mode. I was busy. I went to every appointment and attended every session. I filled my time with sketching. I even landed a big project. I kept myself distracted. I never let myself sit still.
But when it was all done, I finally had a moment to breathe — and that is when I thought. What just happened? I wasn’t the same person. And worse, people didn’t see me the same way.
The one who kept my sanity
My husband was my biggest support — him and his mother. The treatment put me into menopause, which meant constant hot flashes. I used to have thick, beautiful hair, and suddenly, I was bald and sweating like crazy every five minutes.
But my husband never wavered. He loved me unconditionally.
I know women whose husbands left them, cheated on them or divorced them during their treatment. I have heard these stories all the time during my mentorship work in Dubai and Egypt. Not everyone can handle seeing their partner change like that.
I still don’t know how he managed it all — the endless paperwork, the second, third, and sometimes even fourth opinions, the countless scans. He handled everything, making it seem effortless, as if it were just another part of life — nothing to worry about, nothing to complain about.
I knew he was stressed. I knew he was scared. But through it all, he was there — steady, unwavering, and always had the wittiest sense of humour. And somehow, he never let me feel like a burden. To him, I wasn’t just a patient — I was still his wife. I didn’t feel pity or obligation from him; I felt love — pure, constant, and real.
I don’t know how he did it, how he carried the weight of it all while still making me feel cherished. But I do know this — because of everything he has done, everything he is — I love him now more deeply, more fiercely than I ever did before.
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Hana and her family. From left to right: her husband, her son, her son calling her, and Hana herself. Photo: Hana's personal archive
Love is all you need
At first, I was overwhelmed. I started "eating" Netflix — just consuming TV, doing nothing else. I thought, “Maybe this is my body telling me to stop being productive. Maybe I should just rest like a normal person.”
Then, slowly, I started picking up sketchbooks — scribbling, creating a character of myself. I never planned to show these works to anyone, it was my only outlet, but now I am considering turning them into an artist’s book.
One thing I have learned is don’t isolate yourself. Strong people don’t ask for help. They say they want space, but it is a lie. I kept saying I wanted to be alone, but when people actually left me alone, I felt miserable. Why did they leave? Do they think I am a burden? Are they coming back?
During my treatment, I saw who was truly there for me and who wasn’t. I noticed how people treated me differently, how they looked at me with either pity or discomfort. I learned a lot about true giving, loving and supporting.
Now, I mentor around 12 or 13 cancer patients. And it is never the patients that I mostly mentor — it is always their families. People don’t know how to support a cancer patient. They either tiptoe around them or withdraw completely. And both are terrible and can create a lifelong crack in any relationship because this time is when things truly matter.
One of my best friends stopped sharing anything personal with me. Every time we spoke, she only asked about my treatments, my doctors, my symptoms. She never talked about her life; she felt everything was small compared to what I was going through. I told her, I want to feel like your friend, not just a cancer patient.
Cancer is not a blessing — no illness is. It is a struggle, a relentless hardship that tests you in ways you never imagined. But if there is one thing I have learned, it is that the only way to survive the treatment is to hold on to hope, to think positively, and to surround yourself with the people you love — the ones who love you just as fiercely in return.
Love is what carries you through the darkest days. It gives you strength when everything else feels broken. Maybe, after all, love really is the answer to everything.
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