Turning Sites of Displacement Into Exhibition Spaces

In a book compiled by the late art activist Mona al-Saoudi titled “In Time of War: Children Testify,” al-Saoudi presents a selection of drawings from thousands collected between September 1968 and June 1969, made by children ages 5 to 14. She describes the book as a document produced by children themselves, expressing the revolutionary climate 20 years after the Nakba and one year after the June 1967 war, which had displaced them to the Bakaa refugee camp. 

Al-Saoudi carried paper and colors to 50,000 displaced people living under the scorching sun on barren land surrounded by stark mountains. Though the children initially greeted her with the words, “we are not here to be watched,” a deep friendship and shared language took root within days. Colors became tools through which they rendered their memories with full, unsparing intensity. 

In Lebanese educator Jouriyya Fawaz’s book, “War Trauma: Its Psychological and Educational Effects,” she examines drawings by children who lived through the July 2006 war to explore its psychological and educational impact, with particular attention to children from Beirut’s southern suburbs. The study sought to understand how children express suffering and traumatic experiences through free drawing and written expression, comparing children across three areas: Dahieh (high exposure to danger), West Beirut (moderate exposure), and East Beirut (low exposure). 

The study found that the July war left clear psychological effects on children and that their understanding of war and peace varied according to their place of residence. It also revealed a desire among some children from Dahieh to join the resistance in the future.

In the drawings included in the study, destruction and devastation appeared in the form of warplanes, missiles, weapons, injured people, corpses, and blood — as did national resistance symbols, including one child’s drawing of an Israeli warship engulfed in flames at sea. 

While reviewing these two studies, and setting aside their different purposes, I was struck by the beauty of seeing children’s drawings as historical documents. Those who produced the drawings in the first study are likely now in their 50s and 60s. Those in the second study— children who lived through the 2006 war — are now likely in their 20s and 30s. Some of them have lived through war once again. Some may have realized their childhood dream of joining the resistance.

In our work with children during the war, we situate our practice within broad frameworks related to supporting the resilience of displaced families and their children by providing psychological, educational, recreational, artistic, and learning support activities. Such models and references help us develop a deeper understanding of the role that artistic activities can play in the lives of children during times of war. 

With the outbreak of war on Lebanon in September 2024, waves of displaced people began arriving in Beirut and other relatively safer areas from the South, the Bekaa, and Dahieh. We began as a group of American University students volunteering at Ras Beirut School, where families and children were spending entire days in classrooms without access to educational or recreational activities. 

At first, our work was spontaneous. We organized simple art activities — distributing paper, pencils, and colors and inviting students to express their feelings, thoughts, and memories on a blank page. The results were deeply striking from the very first days. The children responded with remarkable enthusiasm, expressing themselves openly and passionately. They engaged deeply with the activities and soon began asking for opportunities to draw, develop their creative skills and imagination. 

As volunteers, we too were learning. Each day brought new experiences through our interactions with the children.  We drew with them, thought with them, and reflected on days filled with sad and distressing news — which often found its way into their drawings. 

After two years, and with the renewed escalation of aggression in 2026, we revived the initiative.

During an art activity with displaced children on Beirut’s seafront, a child drew a sad toilet, then came over to tell me: “I’ve finished my drawing.” I encouraged him to add more, so he drew a child trying to use the toilet. The other children burst out laughing.

I immediately thought of Marcel Duchamp and his famous urinal — not because I intended any academic comparison, but simply because the image of the toilet presented as a work of art reminded me of it. The irony was impossible to ignore. Here was a child living under the weight of war and displacement, drawing a toilet out of necessity rather than artistic provocation. I didn’t mention Duchamp to the children. Yet the coincidence carried a quiet, painful weight. 

This small story points to one of the pressing daily disasters facing hundreds of displaced families in the heart of Beirut: the absence of basic necessities, including toilets and clean water. 

The children are displaced from their social environments, networks of safety and belonging, and familiar surroundings. They live in small tents designed for short trips. There are no bathrooms, showers, or toilets. They have to walk long distances to relieve themselves at a mosque or some place willing to receive them. The children draw their beautiful paintings on asphalt-paved ground. Sometimes we were able to give them thick cardboard or bring cardboard flooring used in construction sites.

After the devastating bombardment of Lebanon on April 8, 2026, and despite the fear and grief that gripped everyone, we decided not to cancel the drawing activity we had planned with a group of children on Beirut’s seafront. That day, I returned around 2 p.m. from volunteering at the Evangelical School in the Ras Beirut area. Within minutes, Israeli warplanes carried out a hundred airstrikes. The sound was terrifying. Everyone was shaken by the scale and intensity of the attack. Hundreds were killed and wounded. All the shops closed. The streets emptied. 

Our activity was scheduled for 5 p.m. Despite the atmosphere of fear, we went ahead with it. 

Once the activity began, the fear and anxiety slowly receded. The children started drawing, and we drew with them. We had already been seeing these children three times a week alongside volunteers from The Popular Committee, a popular coordination committee formed in 2024. They were eager for any  artistic or educational activity. Their imaginations were extraordinary. 

Giving the children our full attention helped sustain their engagement. Sometimes we would suggest a theme, like “let’s draw the flag of Lebanon,” and they would respond quickly. But on this particular day, we didn’t offer them any themes. And yet, the children drew scenes of the Israeli war on Lebanon.

Nour Ali, displaced from southern Lebanon, drew a city under attack with missiles raining down on it. Nour Assaf, a Syrian child displaced from Dahieh, drew the earth suspended in space with the Lebanese flag emerging from it. Her drawing was later featured at an art exhibition organized by students at the American University of Beirut. After the so-called ceasefire on April 17, both of their families left Beirut’s seafront. I never saw either of them again.

After April 17, some families left, while others left and later returned. The children spent their days under the sun, their skin cracked and burned. Yet they continued to smile and brought us joy, laughter, lively noise, and play while drawing. 

In his book “Inside the White Cube,” Brian O’Doherty argues that the modern gallery — the “white cube” with its harsh white walls, artificial lighting, and near-religious silence — is not a neutral container for art but an ideological apparatus that fundamentally shapes how art is produced, experienced, and evaluated. O’Doherty says that this seemingly sacred space separates artwork from the realities that produce them, subjects them to the logic of commodification, and creates a psychological distance between the work and the viewer. 

The problem of the white cube becomes even apparent when art is encountered in places where museums, galleries, and studios have been destroyed by bombing. Nor is this confined to the current war. Since 1948, museums, art collections, and archives have themselves been targets of Israeli colonial destruction or plunder. 

Working with displaced children during the war required us to do the opposite of what the white cube demands. Rather than removing artworks from the conditions of their making, we organized small exhibitions in the very places where the children were living. The sites of displacement became exhibition spaces. 

In the space offered here, we present a small selection of these artworks as an attempt to continue producing counter-knowledge by children whose only “guilt” is that they were born in Lebanon, beside the most despicable colonial project this land has ever known.