When I was a child, I believed peace was something you could simply declare. Not after a long negotiation or a treaty signed behind closed doors – but here, now, with full-hearted conviction. I used to imagine myself standing before the world, giving the kind of speech that would make everyone stop. Lay down their weapons. Look into each other’s eyes. I didn’t know what geopolitics meant. I only knew that peace felt so close, so human. Like breath. Like light.
Years passed. The world grew louder, more complicated. But that small voice inside me never entirely disappeared. Then, one day in London, years later, a student far from home, I found myself reading Stefan Zweig in the solitude of a rented room. And there it was. A single line that struck like lightning: “Why does no one ever declare peace the way they declare war?”
I remember closing the book, stunned, as if he had reached across time and finished a sentence I had begun as a child. The voice I thought I had imagined was not mine alone. It had echoed before. It had lived in other minds, in other languages, across generations. Zweig, with his tenderness and grief, reminded me that the longing for peace is not naive – it is profoundly human. And perhaps especially, irrevocably, artistic.
Because who dreams more stubbornly than the artist?
Who insists on beauty amid destruction?
Who keeps imagining what the world could be, despite everything it is?
That day in London, something quietly shifted. My childhood speeches returned, not as fantasy but as responsibility. And I began to understand: those who carry the fire of creation in their hands are often the first to mourn violence – and the last to give up on peace.
Maybe that’s why the soul of the artist so often aches for a world without war.
Because deep down, we are all trying to finish that same unwritten sentence: “Let someone, somewhere, for once, finally declare peace instead of war.”
Art, unlike politics or media, doesn’t rely on consensus. It doesn’t seek to convince or dominate. It invites. It whispers. It lingers. It shows us what we didn’t know we needed to feel. And in that emotional space, transformation becomes possible – not just socially or culturally, but linguistically.
In this sense, art is not decoration. It is resistance.
In Palestine, ephemeral street art is not simply visual expression – it is an act of survival. Murals on the Separation Wall in Bethlehem, graffiti scrawled in the dead of night across checkpoints and rubble, are not ornamental; they reclaim occupied space. They speak back to erasure. These images of olive trees, of keys symbolizing lost homes, of children flying kites, carry collective memory where textbooks and headlines fail. They remind the world, and their own people, we are still here.
In Ukraine, as missiles fall and infrastructure collapses, artists continue to create in the ruins. Underground theaters in Kyiv host performances in candlelight. Poets write verses between air raids. Painted sandbags and sculpture fragments line the streets like sentinels. Art becomes a pulse, a defiance of numbness. In moments when war wants to reduce a people to victimhood alone, creation becomes an act of agency. It says: we are not only what happens to us; we are also what we make in response.
In Syria, amid a decade of devastation, artists in exile and those remaining inside continue to render trauma into visibility. From animated films made in refugee camps, to haunting installations of abandoned shoes or projection art on ruined buildings, Syrian art has documented what the world tried to look away from. These are not “creative projects.” These are testaments. They speak for the disappeared, the displaced, the dead. They hold grief and beauty in the same breath, because war has no monopoly on truth.
These works do not stop tanks. They do not redraw borders. But they do something quieter – and perhaps more enduring. They prevent erasure. They hold memory when history is still being written in fire. And in doing so, they plant the seeds of future justice. As Susan Sontag wrote, “Photographs do not restore history, but they make it harder to forget.” Art makes it harder to look away. It demands witnessing. It invites reckoning.
This is why authoritarian regimes fear artists. Why occupying powers paint over walls. Why protest songs are silenced. Because art reminds us of our capacity to feel, to imagine, to resist despair.
Art is not a luxury of peacetime. It is a tool of survival in wartime. It documents. It dreams. It disrupts. And sometimes, it dares to offer a vision of peace – not as an abstraction, but as a fragile, fierce, necessary possibility.
So what about peace? Not just as the end of war, but as the beginning of something new?
Here, I return to the idea of declaring peace – not waiting for it, not negotiating it, but declaring it like an artist declares a line or a poet declares a verse. Declaring peace is not passive. It is not naive. It is radical and visionary. It says, “I refuse to replicate the logic of violence. I choose another language.”
Art offers that language. And it is not always pretty. Sometimes peace looks like a scream caught in clay. Sometimes it is silence stretched across a performance piece that lasts seven hours. Sometimes it is joyful, colorful, dancing in resistance. Sometimes it is slow. But always, it is a process that resists destruction simply by insisting on life.
Bell Hooks once wrote, “The function of art is to imagine what is possible.” And I believe this is where art becomes a force that can, in its own time and way, save the world – not by fixing it, but by freeing it to dream again.
Dreaming… It is important. Because war is not only fought in cities. It is fought in imaginations. When a child stops dreaming, when a community forgets beauty, when we accept suffering as inevitable, we have already lost. Art opens a window. It whispers, “It doesn’t have to be this way. Another world is possible.”
And I, as an artist, choose to keep that window open.
Every brushstroke, every installation, every flickering video projection is a declaration of my belief, not in utopia, but in the stubborn possibility of change. In empathy. In presence. In memory. And yes, in peace.
What can art do?
It can shift perception. It can reframe reality. It can hold space for what has been silenced. It can comfort. It can provoke. It can reveal the truth too heavy for policy. It can say what cannot be said. And sometimes, it can stop someone from picking up a weapon, if only by reminding them of their humanity. Since I am not that naïve child yet dreaming peace is one finger clicking ahead, I no longer believe peace is simple. But I believe it is sacred. And I believe artists are among its most essential keepers.
So I return to that child, the one who believed she could speak to the world. She still lives in my works. In every piece, I am still declaring peace. Not as a conclusion, but as an offering. A gesture. A beginning. Because if artists do not imagine peace, if we do not declare it in shape and sound and symbol – who will? So I will keep declaring peace – not as a conclusion, but as an interruption. A disruption. A defiant, creative act against the machinery of forgetting.
Because when all the weapons have spoken, it is the artists who will have the final word.