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Art has always been my refuge—a space where the unspeakable finds form, and the intangible is made visible. The 2006 war between Hezbollah and Israel, with its relentless waves of destruction and loss, became an agonizing catalyst for creation. Amid the chaos, as news of mounting civilian casualties filled the air, I found myself paralyzed—not by inaction, but by the overwhelming sense of helplessness that accompanies distant witnessing. My only solace, my only means of response, was to paint.

During those harrowing days, I created two paintings: Marwahin and Rachel. Together, they stand as visual meditations on the devastating toll of war, woven through the intimate lens of motherhood. The maternal figure, an enduring symbol of life and nurture, became my medium to explore the shattering weight of loss.

In the beginning, I felt a profound conflict. How do you quantify death and sorrow? How do you overcome the anger and grief that threaten to consume you? And how do you extend empathy toward victims on the other side, where the sheer scale of casualties becomes overwhelming? Painting became an open hand reaching outward—an act of resistance, first against myself and the urge to antagonize, and then against hate itself. It was a way to gather sorrow, to acknowledge that grief knows no boundaries.

Marwahin takes its name from the massacre of civilians fleeing violence—a name etched into memory with the heavy permanence of grief. In this piece, a mother’s lifeless body cradles her deceased children. The scene is unnervingly quiet, as though time has stopped to absorb the unspeakable. Her arms, once a sanctuary of protection, now hold only the aftermath of devastation. This stillness is not peace; it is the void left in the wake of destruction, a numbness that borders on the surreal.

In contrast, Rachel erupts with movement and anguish. Inspired by the biblical verse, “Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted, because they are no more,” the painting captures a mother caught in the unrelenting moment of despair. Her fingers clutch her face in agony, her body contorted by the force of her grief. Her silent cry reverberates across the canvas, embodying the eternal sorrow of all mothers who have borne the unbearable weight of loss.

As I painted these works, I was not merely an artist but a witness, channeling the spectrum of emotions that war evokes. It was only when I placed Marwahin and Rachel side by side that their narrative unfolded fully. They are not opposites but echoes, reflecting the dual realities of grief: the hollow quiet of resignation and the searing violence of sorrow. These are the twin faces of tragedy, mirrored in every human experience of profound loss.

The maternal figure became central to these works because she represents life at its most vulnerable and its most resilient. Through her, I sought to speak to something universal—the fragility of existence and the enduring, unbreakable force of love. These paintings are not about assigning blame or recounting historical specifics; they are about opening a space for empathy, a space where we confront the shared pain that connects us as humans.

Each brushstroke felt like part of a ritual, a silent act of remembrance for those lives cut short, for the stories left unfinished. To paint was to bear witness, to offer a fragment of permanence in the face of impermanence. And yet, even as I worked, I knew these paintings were not mine alone. They belonged to the mothers whose stories they sought to honor, to the grieving families, and to the broader human story of suffering and resilience.

In 2007, Marwahin and Rachel were included in a group exhibition at CUNY, where Lebanese artists gathered to share their narratives of identity, culture, and memory. Seeing the painting in that collective context was a profound moment. It reaffirmed that art is more than personal expression; it is a bridge—a way to connect across distances, to feel deeply, and to confront truths that words cannot capture.

These works are not bound to Lebanon or Israel; they transcend borders and ideologies. They speak a language older than politics, a language of grief and love, of loss and remembrance. My hope is that, in standing before these paintings, one might pause, reflect, and feel the fragile, resilient thread of humanity that ties us all together.

Yet, as I reflect on these creations today, a profound sorrow deepens within me. The recent conflict that erupted between Israel and Hezbollah serves as a haunting reminder of the cyclical nature of violence. The ceasefire brought a fragile hope, but the scars of renewed hostilities are fresh and deep. The extension of the truce underscores the tenuousness of peace in a region perpetually on the brink.

The weight of accumulated sorrow presses heavily upon us. Each resurgence of conflict adds layers to the collective grief, reminding us that the lessons of the past remain unheeded. It is a somber testament to our shared humanity that, despite the passage of time, the same patterns of pain and loss continue to manifest.

In this context, the two paintings take on an even more urgent significance. They stand as silent witnesses to the enduring anguish of war, imploring us to break free from this relentless cycle. They are a plea for empathy, for understanding, and for the recognition that, at the end of the day, we are one people, bound by the same desires for safety, love, and peace.

As we stand at this crossroads once again, may we choose the path of peace

Link to Exhibition: https://marounkassab.com/exhibition-narratives-stories-in-artform/