Letter 9: It is happening again
Photo taken in Nabatiyé, South Lebanon.
House of Aunt Afaf damaged by Israeli bombing in 2024.
Aunt Afaf was killed by another Israeli airstrike that reduced her apartment to ashes on 8th of April 2026.
Letters From The Ground 9: It is happening again
From: Mohamad Hamdan - Engineer in Mathematics, Practitioner in Theatre, Practitioner in Nonviolent CommunicationTo colleagues working across cultural and development policymaking, cultural foundations and institutions and donor bodies
Preface
I write this letter as my country - Lebanon - and region are under attack. I write as a way to resist, surrounded by the sound of drones, missiles, and bombings. I write because what is happening here is not isolated from what is unfolding on a larger, global scale. Here, it is more intense, more visible. What we live and witness is part of a broader system of control, domination, and oppression worldwide.I hope to contribute to the conversation on art and culture in such times, as they remain at the core of human development.I also wish to contribute to a space for reflection on how we can practice art and culture with political clarity and a deeper awareness of power. In this letter, I move between the personal and the collective - not to offer final answers, but to spark dialogue.
Dear colleagues,
It is happening again.We - as humanity - are witnessing, in real time, the normalization of the massive use of force as a way to govern relations between people and nations.Beyond political debates. Beyond positions about who is right or wrong. Who started what.Who has the right to defend themselves.My attention goes elsewhere. We - as humanity - are witnessing the normalization of the massive use of force as a means of domination.
It is happening again.The disproportionate use of force is being justified as reasonable, necessary, and legitimate.As large-scale bombardment becomes explainable, defensible, and inevitable within public discourse, engaging in polarizing political debates contributes to the normalization of massive violence as a legitimate instrument of power.
It is happening again.I am a child born in a time of war. A child who lived through the Israeli occupation. A child who grew up with the awareness that something inhabits the clouds - able, at any moment, to strike from the dark sky.Before I could construct meaning, I had already learned to distrust the sky.
I am a child born in a time of war. A child who lived through the Israeli occupation. A child who grew up with the awareness that something inhabits the clouds—able, at any moment, to strike from the dark sky above.
It is happening again.I was four years old when Beirut was bombed and besieged. When Israeli tanks stationed themselves in our neighborhood, my mother told me: “Never look into the soldiers’ eyes. Walk as if they do not exist.”She still reminds me of this story today.
It is happening again.I was seventeen during one of the massive attacks against South Lebanon. School stopped. I remember the day when more than one hundred civilians were killed by Israeli strikes while sheltering in the UN base in Qana. I remember the heaviness in my heart. I remember organizing a demonstration with my classmates in the face of this monstrosity.Our bodies became resistance.
It is happening again. I was twenty-eight when another war was launched on Lebanon. I was living in Paris. Together with other Lebanese - despite our political differences - we organized a protest with a single shared message: “Ceasefire now. No politics is possible under fire.”Months later, we organized a public encounter titled:“Israel: the politics of power or the power of politics?”
Twenty years later, I find myself asking the same question.Twenty years later, I find myself rooted in the same clarity.
Our shared humanity is sliding one more time into the normalization of violence - presented as negotiation, justified as necessity, and imposed as a path to order. Violence becomes the language of power. The instrument through which control is secured and submission is demanded.The masks have fallen. Human rights, international law, conventions, and treaties are abandoned words written carefully on paper.Those who choose to see will see.They will see what is happening.They will see the occupation and colonial settlement.They will see the militarization.They will see the concentration of profit.They will see the dismantling of our political practice.When things become this visible, our positioning can no longer be a matter of political opinion; it becomes one of personal and collective responsibility.For me, art and culture are acts of personal and collective responsibility, grounded in political determination. They are neither a refuge nor a consolation.Art is a tool to question power, expose injustice, and refuse submission to systems that devalue human life. When war seeks to dictate what is possible, artistic practice insists on the opposite: it creates spaces for critique, solidarity, and the imagination of alternatives.
Art makes visible what power tries to erase.This is why I do what I do.Witnessing alone is not enough.I turn, then, to our artistic and cultural field with the reflections and questions that inhabit me today.If violence becomes the language of governance, what does this reveal about the direction we have taken through our cultural and development policies? What can we imagine from here?What if this moment requires us to question the very foundations of the frameworks within which we operate?What if the system we thought we were challenging has confined us to a safe space where our efforts can be neutralized at its convenience or erased by missiles and weapons?What if we begin with the language we use?We often speak about serving marginalized communities. But what if the people perceived at the margins are not those who need to be served but those who see the danger?Like birds flying at the edge of a flock, they sense the storm before everyone else; they guide the movement of the whole.What if our focus on “underrepresented voices” and “shifting narratives” has not changed power structures but simply created a beautiful museum of voices?Have we turned the defining challenges of our time - AI, climate change, human rights - into trendy themes for innovative projects, isolating them rather than confronting their interconnections and what they reveal about power and control within our collective structures?Did we indulge in comfort?Did we confuse comfort with convenience?Did we spend too much time engineering sustainability as if it was an act of eternity?What if sustainability is not permanence, but the act of choosing what remains and the practice of continuity?What remains now is determination,learning from the margins,enduring destruction,working with those who see clearly,thinking critically alongside beauty,continuing from what remains.
When violence becomes the language of power, neutrality is a position. Silence is a choice.When art and culture do not challenge systems that organize death, they become part of them.
When I am close to death, doubt disappears.I hear the sound.I see the smoke.And my guts sense the smell.Such clarity comes from the ground.With no words; with no thoughts. It is simply in my body, in our bodies.The body is what remains.And what remains takes shapethrough our cultural spaces,through our projects,through our actions;as beautiful acts of undoing systems of domination,as beautiful acts of reweaving individual and collective agency,held in clarity,in responsibility,in care.
*I am deeply grateful to Lamia Abi Azar, Omar Abi Azar, Stephanie Dadour, Caroline Nanzer, Junaid Sarieddine, Lara Tabet, and Maya Zbib for their thoughtful feedback.
From: Mohamad Hamdan - Engineer in Mathematics, Practitioner in Theatre, Practitioner in Nonviolent Communication
To colleagues working across cultural and development policymaking, cultural foundations and institutions and donor bodies
I write this letter as my country - Lebanon - and region are under attack. I write as a way to resist, surrounded by the sound of drones, missiles, and bombings. I write because what is happening here is not isolated from what is unfolding on a larger, global scale. Here, it is more intense, more visible. What we live and witness is part of a broader system of control, domination, and oppression worldwide.
I hope to contribute to the conversation on art and culture in such times, as they remain at the core of human development.
I also wish to contribute to a space for reflection on how we can practice art and culture with political clarity and a deeper awareness of power. In this letter, I move between the personal and the collective - not to offer final answers, but to spark dialogue.
Dear colleagues,
It is happening again.
We - as humanity - are witnessing, in real time, the normalization of the massive use of force as a way to govern relations between people and nations.
Beyond political debates.
Beyond positions about who is right or wrong. Who started what.
Who has the right to defend themselves.
My attention goes elsewhere.
We - as humanity - are witnessing the normalization of the massive use of force as a means of domination.
It is happening again.
The disproportionate use of force is being justified as reasonable, necessary, and legitimate.
As large-scale bombardment becomes explainable, defensible, and inevitable within public discourse, engaging in polarizing political debates contributes to the normalization of massive violence as a legitimate instrument of power.
It is happening again.
I am a child born in a time of war. A child who lived through the Israeli occupation. A child who grew up with the awareness that something inhabits the clouds - able, at any moment, to strike from the dark sky.
Before I could construct meaning, I had already learned to distrust the sky.
I am a child born in a time of war. A child who lived through the Israeli occupation. A child who grew up with the awareness that something inhabits the clouds—able, at any moment, to strike from the dark sky above.
It is happening again.
I was four years old when Beirut was bombed and besieged. When Israeli tanks stationed themselves in our neighborhood, my mother told me: “Never look into the soldiers’ eyes. Walk as if they do not exist.”
She still reminds me of this story today.
It is happening again.
I was seventeen during one of the massive attacks against South Lebanon. School stopped. I remember the day when more than one hundred civilians were killed by Israeli strikes while sheltering in the UN base in Qana. I remember the heaviness in my heart. I remember organizing a demonstration with my classmates in the face of this monstrosity.
Our bodies became resistance.
It is happening again.
I was twenty-eight when another war was launched on Lebanon. I was living in Paris. Together with other Lebanese - despite our political differences - we organized a protest with a single shared message:
“Ceasefire now. No politics is possible under fire.”
Months later, we organized a public encounter titled:
“Israel: the politics of power or the power of politics?”
Twenty years later, I find myself asking the same question.
Twenty years later, I find myself rooted in the same clarity.
Our shared humanity is sliding one more time into the normalization of violence - presented as negotiation, justified as necessity, and imposed as a path to order. Violence becomes the language of power. The instrument through which control is secured and submission is demanded.
The masks have fallen. Human rights, international law, conventions, and treaties are abandoned words written carefully on paper.
Those who choose to see will see.
They will see what is happening.
They will see the occupation and colonial settlement.
They will see the militarization.
They will see the concentration of profit.
They will see the dismantling of our political practice.
When things become this visible, our positioning can no longer be a matter of political opinion; it becomes one of personal and collective responsibility.
For me, art and culture are acts of personal and collective responsibility, grounded in political determination. They are neither a refuge nor a consolation.
Art is a tool to question power, expose injustice, and refuse submission to systems that devalue human life. When war seeks to dictate what is possible, artistic practice insists on the opposite: it creates spaces for critique, solidarity, and the imagination of alternatives.
Art makes visible what power tries to erase.
This is why I do what I do.
Witnessing alone is not enough.
I turn, then, to our artistic and cultural field with the reflections and questions that inhabit me today.
If violence becomes the language of governance, what does this reveal about the direction we have taken through our cultural and development policies?
What can we imagine from here?
What if this moment requires us to question the very foundations of the frameworks within which we operate?
What if the system we thought we were challenging has confined us to a safe space where our efforts can be neutralized at its convenience or erased by missiles and weapons?
What if we begin with the language we use?
We often speak about serving marginalized communities. But what if the people perceived at the margins are not those who need to be served but those who see the danger?
Like birds flying at the edge of a flock, they sense the storm before everyone else; they guide the movement of the whole.
What if our focus on “underrepresented voices” and “shifting narratives” has not changed power structures but simply created a beautiful museum of voices?
Have we turned the defining challenges of our time - AI, climate change, human rights - into trendy themes for innovative projects, isolating them rather than confronting their interconnections and what they reveal about power and control within our collective structures?
Did we indulge in comfort?
Did we confuse comfort with convenience?
Did we spend too much time engineering sustainability as if it was an act of eternity?
What if sustainability is not permanence, but the act of choosing what remains and the practice of continuity?
What remains now is determination,
learning from the margins,
enduring destruction,
working with those who see clearly,
thinking critically alongside beauty,
continuing from what remains.
When violence becomes the language of power, neutrality is a position. Silence is a choice.
When art and culture do not challenge systems that organize death, they become part of them.
When I am close to death, doubt disappears.
I hear the sound.
I see the smoke.
And my guts sense the smell.
Such clarity comes from the ground.
With no words; with no thoughts.
It is simply in my body, in our bodies.
The body is what remains.
And what remains takes shape
through our cultural spaces,
through our projects,
through our actions;
as beautiful acts of undoing systems of domination,
as beautiful acts of reweaving individual and collective agency,
held in clarity,
in responsibility,
in care.
*I am deeply grateful to Lamia Abi Azar, Omar Abi Azar, Stephanie Dadour, Caroline Nanzer, Junaid Sarieddine, Lara Tabet, and Maya Zbib for their thoughtful feedback.
