“Olive Branch is an exhibition based on the genocide in Gaza”¹, Nafisa Rizvi does not attempt to mince her words in the curatorial note for the exhibition titled Olive Branch which was held at Koel Gallery in Karachi. The exhibition came as a response to the escalation of violence in the occupied territories of Palestine after armed group Hamas initiated an attack on October 7th, 2023 that allegedly killed 1,200 Israelis, prompting a counter military campaign by Israel that has now killed more than 38,000 Palestinians in retaliation. However, according to the Lancet – one of the world’s most distinguished peer-reviewed medical journals – the figure of the Palestinian death toll may actually be closer to 186,000. ² The decimation of Palestine’s civilian population due to Israel’s campaign has caused a severe humanitarian crisis to unfold in Gaza, leading to a global condemnation of Israel’s war tactics. Rizvi, who curated the exhibition, states that the participating artists stand in solidarity with the people of Palestine.

The Israel-Palestine conflict is an ongoing story of military occupation, land settlement, and political control. In this conflict that has spanned over 76 years, stories of mass displacement, demolition, and discrimination have been prevalent throughout the decades. In this most recent aftermath of events, news media from all over the world was flooded with content with opposing variations of journalistic discourse taking place, depending on where it was situated. In as sensitive times such as now, the word “genocide” itself seems to be a contestable one, as social media users find inventive ways to bypass the algorithm from picking up the very mention of the word, while supporters of Israel deny the existence of a genocide altogether. Zionists routinely cite Israel’s right to exist as a Jewish ancestral homeland with the right to defend itself, while supporters of Palestine call out the stark injustices carried out by the state of Israel on the indigenous Palestinian population living under occupation, a system no different to apartheid. However, in an historic ruling in July 2024, the International Court of Justice (the UN’s top court) declared Israel’s occupation of Palestine as illegal, stating that “Israel should evacuate all of its settlers from the West Bank and East Jerusalem and pay reparations to Palestinians for damages caused by the occupation.”³ The prevalent issues in this region of the Middle East seem to have found even more visibility in the age of social media, bringing to light the circumstances that have necessitated Palestinian resistance, further strengthened by the growing awareness in the worldwide population.

Palestinians have continued to document ample evidence – all in visual form – of the mass killing of their population and bombardment of urban life. Many of these narratives also depict the covert methods of ethnic cleansing that the Israeli government has been accused of doing, including the burning of olive trees, demolition of homes, and mobility restrictions around the region. Existence of these visual narratives is what has allowed the 24 Pakistani artists in this exhibition to highlight and provide support to the plight of the Palestinians, with all proceeds from sales of the artworks aimed at providing aid to Gaza. The artworks in the show attempt to highlight varying facets of the conflict, standing as a testament to the many atrocities that are often overlooked in mass media, particularly in Western narratives.

To fully grasp the nuances of the work in the exhibition, one needs to be able to understand the Palestinian perspective, starting with the Nakba. The term “Nakba” originates from Arabic and translates to “catastrophe”, denoting the mass displacement of 700,000 Palestinians and loss of land during the 1948 Arab-Israeli war. Establishing a Jewish state in Palestine is one of the primary movements of Zionism. The first Nakba of 1948 can arguably be seen as an organised expulsion of indigenous Palestinian communities, aimed at homogenising the region ethnically as a purely Jewish homeland which led to the creation of Israel and the occupation of Palestinian territories.

Palestinian-American scholar Edward Said writes in his book The Question of Palestine: “The Palestinian is seen as either a terrorist or a refugee, never as a human being with a legitimate grievance, with an ancestral home, with the ineradicable right to possess and to be possessed by his or her own land.”⁴ Said highlights the profound feelings of loss and exile that Palestinians endured due to the Nakba, offering a thorough critique of Zionism by questioning its rationalizations and exposing its impacts on the Palestinian people. Additionally, he delves into the significance of cultural representation and the influence of narratives in shaping the understanding of the Palestinian struggle.

The “Palestinian right of return” therefore asserts that Palestinian refugees, including those who were directly displaced during the events of 1948 and 1967, have the entitlement to return to their former homes and reclaim the property they were forced to leave behind. First articulated by United Nations mediator and Swedish diplomat Folke Bernadotte in June 1948, this notion was not supported by the United Nations and other foreign organisations such as the American State Department or the British Foreign Office. The solution preferred by these organisations for the “Refugee Problem” was for Palestinians to be resettled in other Arab countries, which is an argument that still persists today.⁵

The concept of the home looms heavy on Palestinians. For some of those who were displaced, there still remains hope that they would one day get to return and reclaim the land that was taken from them.

The artists comment on this illegal occupation and land grabbing by Israel through motifs of demolished homes. Nabahat Lotia creates a tiny house in clay with the technique of obvara firing. A small piece of only 6 inches height, it resembles a childlike rendition of what a house would look like, with two windows, a door, a flat roof, and a chimney. However, with the house’s door slightly ajar, a glaze of bright red pools out, symbolising the harrowing reality of Palestinians not only killed in their own homes, but also forced to flee it. Her artist statement reads: Do guz zameen bhi na milli dafun kay liye, translating to “Not even two yards of land could be found for a burial.”⁶ The statement alludes to the massive death toll of Palestinian civilians where it reached a point when not only was their land stolen from them, but also leaving them with no space to bury their dead. Similarly, in a sculptural piece of concrete, clay, and paint, Munawar Ali Syed depicts the aftermath of Palestinian homes left in rubble after being bombed. Part of the work hung on the wall with broken pieces from the top of the frame left on the ground, deliberately replicating the ruins of a Palestinian home. The grey slab of concrete is given meticulous detail in Arabesque designs and motifs around the frame, with cracks and bullet holes made to cover the work. Linking the idea of ornamentation to the home, we are presented with a grim rendition of the loss of safety and homeliness normally attached to one’s house. Syed also points out the “cultural and historical heritage of Palestine” through the work, reminding viewers of the eradication of not just the buildings, but also the historical legacies attached to the homes of the land’s indigenous inhabitants who were being driven out.

Since October 7, 2023, Israel has been accused of committing several war crimes in the ongoing conflict with Hamas. Estimates suggest that between 35% and 57% of buildings in the Gaza Strip have been damaged or destroyed, translating to around 56,000 to 88,868 structures.⁷ This widespread damage includes numerous residential and commercial properties, particularly in Gaza City and the northern regions of the Strip​. The scale of the destruction has deeply affected the civilian population, with thousands of families losing their homes and critical infrastructure such as hospitals and schools suffering significant damage or being completely obliterated.

Urbicide, a term that refers to the deliberate destruction of urban environments, is a concept explored in-depth by Eyal Weizman in his book Hollow Land: Israel’s Architecture of Occupation. Weizman examines how architecture and urban planning are used as tools of war and control in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Weizman also highlights how the built environment is manipulated to exert control over the Palestinian population. For instance, the construction of Israeli settlements and the separation wall are not just defensive measures but part of a broader strategy of territorial domination.⁸ These structures fragment Palestinian territories, disrupt community life, and serve as constant reminders of the occupation’s presence.

As an alternative to the motif of the home, in a large piece of 47 inches, a snake made from wood and resin illustrates a sinister symbol of encroachment and land-grabbing in Aamir Habib’s sculptural piece. His statement reads: “Look. Dead snake, In my house, Living with me, And I am Trying to escape.”⁹ The snake, often being used as a negative connotation in visual culture, discreetly comments on settler colonialism and the systematic methods of eradicating a population.

The origins of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict cannot be separated from the impact of colonialism and imperialism in the early 20^th century. Many scholars trace similarities between the settler colonialisms of the British Empire and North America (particularly in relation to indigenous peoples) to the practices of the Israeli state. In her book Freedom Is a Constant Struggle: Ferguson, Palestine, and the Foundations of a Movement, Angela Davis comments:

“Palestine has always occupied a pivotal space precisely because of the similarities between Israel and the United States – their foundational settler colonialism and their ethnic cleansing processes with respect to indigenous people, their systems of segregation, their use of legal systems to enact systematic repression, and so forth.”¹⁰

Sophia Balagamwala explores these colonial histories in an untitled painting. Reminiscent of Company paintings produced for the East India Company during the British Raj in India, a British officer in a red coat overlooks a green landscape, obscured in the “nonsensical” style that is her signature. Her subjects exist between a “colonial past” and “post and neo-colonial present.”¹¹ Company paintings such as these often-portrayed British conquest over South Asian land through military figures depicted in glorified poses in landscape settings. Balagamwala, however, attempts to subvert that representation by painting the figure as faceless and displaced in an “imagined world”. Also highlighting colonial connotations, Mahreen Zuberi shares an older work from 2007 which she created in collaboration with Palestinian artist Rafat Asad. Titled Identify and Approach, Zuberi documents herself attempting to mount a donkey, providing a step-by-step guide in photographs and instructions in eight different languages. Zuberi claims that when she first made the works, “at that time they meant something else, today they mean something more”, seemingly to highlight the covert notions of control and conquest in colonial practices.¹²

Some works used direct references to Palestinian resistance through instantly recognizable icons – like the watermelon in Madiha Hdyer’s work titled Sugar High, and Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s film stills using images of the Dome of the Rock. Others attempt to depict symbolic renditions of violence, such as Adeela’s Suleiman’s Crimson Horizon, in which the red sky and turquoise water serve as a “harrowing testament to the unimaginable horrors inflicted upon humanity.”¹³ Abdul Jabbar Gul’s sculptural piece entitled Hands Up also depicts his signature repousse brass-work figures, stating: “Will we give in to the evil forces that are holding us hostage by holding up our hands in defeat? Or will we rise and speak out.”¹⁴ Salima Hashmi’s mixed media work titled Family depicts obscured imagery of a group of people, seemingly a family commuting in an outdoor setting, with a gash of red at the very centre of the frame. She writes: “The human family, like other species, sustains the notion of life on our planet. At this moment in history the human family is on the brink of extinction as a concept.”¹⁵ Affan Baghpati’s work also aims to document violence against Muslim ethnicities through object-making techniques. His sculpture titled We Let Them Gulp the Angels combines objects aimed to be representative of South Asian culture, including the bull, lota, and Kajal (kohl) holder.

Certain artists, however, attempted more literal depictions of the violence. Moeen Faruqi’s acrylic on canvas piece entitled 10,000 Angels uses his signature style of painting elongated faces in Fauvist-inspired colours, only this time in a brutal setting of bloodshed and death. Much like painter Grant Wood’s “American Gothic”, a male and female character are positioned in the centre of the frame with deadpan expressions. Faruqi’s central figures stand over a lifeless body wrapped in a funeral shroud, with two faceless winged infants floating around them. The figures also appear to be wearing the Keffiyeh – another strong symbol for Palestinian resistance. At the time of the exhibition, around 10,000 Palestinian children had reportedly been killed by Israeli forces, hence the 10,000 Angels in the title. Now, several months later, the death toll of Palestinian children has exceeded 13,000, according to UNICEF.¹⁶

Others using more harrowing depictions of death include Navin Hyder. In nine black and white drawings, Hyder directly references images posted by Palestinian photojournalists on social media. Images originally taken by Majdi Fathi, Belal Khaled, Abdallah Alattar, Wissam Nassar, and Hani Alshaer are rendered into high-contrast chiaroscuro drawings that depict men grieving while holding lifeless bodies in a stark white shroud against a pitch-black background. All of the dead bodies depicted appear to be those of young children.

Hyder claims:

“My focus is not on the horror a viewer might feel when confronted with those images. It is on the immense love these Palestinians had for their children…it is on the tenderness of these men. Men, especially, because their gender and age have kept excluding them from calls for justice—as though all of them are violent, complicit, and deserving of suffering.”¹⁷

Like Faruqi, Hyder also points to the mass killing of young Palestinian children treated as collateral damage in Israel’s relentless attempts at “eradicating Hamas.” The suffering and loss of Palestinian children is one of the most prominent human rights issues that have emerged through this conflict. The killing of 3-year-old Reem caused major outcry all across social media, with images and videos of her grandfather, Khaled Nabhan, holding her lifeless body, kissing her eyes, and saying his final goodbyes quoted as saying “She was the soul of my soul.”¹⁸ This image of an elderly Arab man with a long beard and turban would typically be associated with negative portrayals of terrorists and Muslim extremists. This time, however, one is confronted with an opposing image of a loving grandfather grieving the loss of his beloved grandchild – a softer, gentler, and far more sympathetic image that forces sceptics to re-evaluate their bias and stereotypes about Arab and Muslim men, similar to what Hyder is trying to portray.

Tragic imagery coming from Palestinian photojournalists in Gaza has become the norm for those viewing the conflict through social media. Reuters photographer Mohammed Salem was awarded the World Press Photo of the Year for 2024, his image depicting a Palestinian woman holding the body of her five-year-old niece covered in a funeral shroud at Nasser hospital in Khan Younis in southern Gaza.¹⁹ Numerous other images of men and women clutching the dead bodies of their loved ones have shocked the world, but also somehow gone unnoticed as Israel continues its bombardment of Gaza from hospitals to refugee camps, where civilians are the primary casualties. Unverified reports of “40 beheaded babies” which were claimed to be done by Hamas were spread all over international news outlets in frenzy, causing mass hysteria worldwide. These reports, which were never verified and were debunked several times, provided unrelenting support for Israel as justification for their retaliation against Hamas. ²⁰ In May 2024, however, actual verified reports and footage were posted online of Palestinian children being bombed and left beheaded at Rafah refugee camp by an Israeli airstrike, an area that was declared to be a safe zone for Palestinians.²¹ Although the International Court of Justice had strictly demanded Israel to halt its military offensive in conformity with its obligations under the Genocide Convention, Rafah was still attacked, burning men, women, and children alive in their tents. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu simply called the strike a “tragic mistake.”²²

The apparent bias in news media and censorship is often cited as being one of the main tactics in garnering support for Israel and eradicating Palestinian visibility. In December 2023, according to Human Rights Watch, approximately 1,050 posts and content related to the conflict were taken down on Instagram and Facebook that documented the bombardment and killing being carried out by Israel. HRW stated that the “censorship of content related to Palestine on Instagram and Facebook is systematic and global”, claiming that any such posts drawing support for Palestine would be marked as spam, flagged as inappropriate, or citing a violation of the social media platform’s Community Guidelines.²³ This would cause such posts to reach fewer audiences and have limited reach to social media users worldwide.

Artists using text-based visuals explore the power and influence of words amidst the oversaturation of news media. Muzzumil Ruheel’s Lost in Translation, although made originally in 2020, fits accurately to the problem of traversing the multitude of narratives and meanings emerging from both sides of the conflict. Not only is the work speaking about navigating the “intricacies of language”, but also the fearmongering instigated at the sight of Arabic-looking script. The blurriness of the words further highlights the loss of original meaning, particularly in the one-sidedness of news coverage overlooking perspectives from the Arab world.

Naazish Ataullah’s minimalistic digital print places the word Pause in the centre of the frame, being a direct reference to the “humanitarian pause” that took place amidst Israel’s bombardment of Gaza in November 2023. The “pause” was meant to allow relief supplies and aid to be delivered to inflicted civilians. Supporters of Israel criticised the notion of a humanitarian pause, including Hilary Clinton, who appeared on the American talk show “The View” and vehemently denounced the idea of a ceasefire, claiming that “Hamas would use it for their own purposes.”²⁴ Supporters of Palestine, however, criticised the absurdity of a temporary pause, saying that not only was a permanent ceasefire needed, but also a dismantling of the illegal occupation of Israel to lead to an independent Palestinian state. Special Rapporteur on Human Rights in the Occupied Palestinian Territories, Francesca Albanese, also criticised Israel’s plan to implement a four-hour daily “humanitarian pause” in military actions in northern Gaza, condemning the proposal as “highly cynical and inhumane,” arguing that it inadequately addresses the dire humanitarian needs of civilians during these brief intervals.²⁵ Ataullah also uses the pattern of the scrim as a “paradoxical metaphor”, stating that the fabric has “depicted the predicament of women; exposed to the interests of the powerful, often in horrifying scenes of death, destruction and loss.”²⁶

Other artists similarly use the image of the gauze fabric as symbolic to Palestinian resistance. Noorjehan Bilgrami’s artist statement reads: “The word ‘gauze’ comes from the Arabic word ‘Ghazza’. The Cotton gauze, an open fragile weave, used for bandages was once woven on looms by the weavers of Gaza.”²⁷ Using grid lines and splattered paint, her etching and woodcut print depicts a fragment of a landscape in black and white, with an indigo-dyed piece of gauze folded beneath it. Sadia Salim also presents a piece of white gauze as part of her work, accompanied by a text that provides a definition for the noun “schadenfreude”, i.e., “pleasure derived by someone from another person’s misfortune.” Salim references Palestinian-American artist and filmmaker Emily Jacir, whose work entitled Where We Come From, according to Salim, “acknowledges this problem of schadenfreude.”²⁸ Jacir’s work explores the “prospect of transforming Palestinians’ sorrows into entertainment for non-Palestinians.”²⁹ Created between 2001 and 2003, it also explores themes of displacement, identity, and the complexities of Palestinian life under occupation.

It can be argued that the late 20^th century and early 21^st century, particularly with the events after 9/11, have added to the prejudice around the Arab and Muslim world. Rampant Islamophobia, most noticeably in the Western world, fetishizes imagery of violence and destruction in the Middle East, apparent in visual culture through films, TV shows, and cartoons. Sonya Battla explores the role of the spectator and voyeurism affiliated with watching scenes of carnage coming from Gaza from afar. She writes: “The act of watching the violence has inundated me with exhaustive unprocessed feelings…A detailed view into destruction, collapse, partition, dismemberment is presented…Gaza is now a spectacle…I am unwittingly drawn into a relationship with this violence.”³⁰ Her drawings attempt to capture a “void within”, while exploring questions about her role as a voyeur amidst the destruction in Gaza.

Islamophobic representation of Muslim countries in visual culture further enable problematic tropes associated with stereotypes of the non-Western world. These stark binaries further translate to news media and the invention of one-sided narratives that aim to villainise the Middle East into one categorical enemy. The dehumanisation of Palestinians amidst this conflict, and throughout their 76 years under occupation, therefore, becomes increasingly apparent when witnessing the atrocities committed against civilians as the Israeli military continues to receive billions of dollars in funding without any accountability for the civilian massacres conducted in Gaza.

On Palestine co-authored by Noam Chomsky and Ilan Pappé explores the historical, political, and social dimensions of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Although both authors are of Jewish descent, they criticise Israeli government policies, particularly regarding settlement expansion in the West Bank and the blockade of Gaza. The authors argue that these policies are aimed at maintaining control over Palestinian territories and preventing the formation of a viable Palestinian state. They also call for global solidarity with the Palestinian cause, urging international bodies to hold Israel accountable for its actions.³¹

Also commenting on the blockades put in place by Israel, Naiza Khan looks upon ideas of “dwelling, boundaries and the impermeability of borders” in her work titled City Wall.³² Khan’s use of watercolour creates an image of map-like clusters, contoured into a restrictive boundary line. Although the series started as a response to the influx of refugees in Europe due to war, climate disaster, and persecution, parallels are easily drawn between the restrictions of mobility inflicted on Palestinians under occupation, particularly in terms of Gaza being referred to as an “open-air prison.”³³ Israel has also been accused of imposing collective punishment by cutting off essential services like water and electricity to Gaza, and blocking the entry of humanitarian aid. These actions have exacerbated the humanitarian crisis and are considered war crimes under international law.

Further strategies employed by settler colonialists include zoocide and abboricide, which involve deliberate environmental destruction aimed at undermining the socio-economic and cultural foundations of indigenous communities. Artists like Mariam Agha utilize imagery found in nature to represent the strategic environmental destruction reportedly carried out by Israel. She presents an edition of five large flowers made of thread and fabric; the embroidered pieces use red and orange thread to draw upon the rawness of flesh and blood, as her statement reads: “He took you from flowers to kingdom, Where not a single living thing can grow.”³⁴

As the title of the exhibition indicates, the olive plant holds symbolic significance when it comes to Palestinian resistance and identity, as well as being vital to Palestine’s agriculture and economy. The illegal uprooting of olive trees in the occupied Palestinian territories may arguably have more sinister implications than simple expansion for Israeli settlements, as a staggering number of 800,000 Palestinian olive trees have been illegally uprooted by Israel since 1967.³⁵ Being vital to hundreds of thousands Palestinians for their livelihood, the olive trees growing in Palestine are known to be one of the most ancient trees in the world, some older than several thousand years.³⁶ Due to the olive tree’s natural framework, its wood does not easily rot, and quickly regrows new trunks, being ready for the harvest season in Spring. Therefore, the olive tree’s symbolism is found not only in its vitality for the lives of the inhabitants of the land, but also within nature itself.

Arshad Faruqi’s sculptural piece titled From the River to the Sea uses the olive tree as a “resilient and enduring symbol” claiming that it “stands tall and its roots delve deep into the soil, mirroring the strength found in the collective struggle to survive”.³⁷ The copper branches and leaves of the olive tree are erected from within cement and slate, alluding to the long-lasting nature of the olive tree, and in turn, the unwavering resilience of the Palestinian struggle. Further exploring the symbol of the olive, Sara Khan Pathan uses not the plant itself, but the olive seed in her work. Placed atop a metal pin and inside a glass bell jar, the tiny seed is carved to resemble a foetus, paying tribute to “the children of heaven”. Commenting on the spiritual framework of the olive plant, Hamra Abbas procured a branch of an olive tree from the site of Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi in Italy in 2019, which she later planted in her own house in Lahore where it continued to grow. In Plant Studies 1, Abbas uses marble and Lapis Lazuli to recreate the same olive tree branch in hues of blue. She states: “The Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi is one of the most important places of Christian pilgrimage in Italy. St. Francis of Assisi is well-known for his many miracles involving animals and birds and his compassion for healing critically ill and injured people.”³⁸ According to Abbas, the symbol of the olive plant may also stand for the healing of Palestinian life. Haya Faruqi’s Seeds of Resilience, a triptych photographic series further uses the olive branch as a symbol for Palestinian resistance. Within the three black and white photographs of debris and rubble, we see colour splashes of green olive branches emerging from the pile of concrete. Faruqi writes: “From this desolation, defiant olive branches emerge, embodying the profound resilience inherently woven into the fabric of the Palestinians.” She goes on to speak about the significance of the olive branch signalling ideas of hope and “yearning for a world liberated from conflict”.³⁹

Like many Palestinian diaspora who have had to witness the eradication of their culture and heritage from afar, Palestinian-born Canadian artist Rehab Nazzal recognises the lack of visibility given to indigenous stories and perspectives, while also challenging the deliberate silencing of Palestinian voices. In an essay titled “The Olive Tree and the Palestinian Struggle Against Settler-Colonialism”, Nazzal documents her familial connection to Palestinian land and the “uprooting of its ancient olive trees”.⁴⁰ She writes: “Witnessing the lynching of ancient olive trees was painful and shocking. Extermination of the colonised people is extending here in front of my eyes into the slaughter of their culture and the trees that sustain human life itself.” She further writes: “For Palestinians, olive trees signify connection to and rootedness in the land.” To conclude her essay, she remarks: “if uprooting hundreds-of-thousands of olive and fruit trees, seizing land, shattering communities, and inflicting blockades on millions in open-air prisons does not constitute genocide, then what is genocide?”⁴¹

For decades, Western media has dominated and controlled narratives about the Middle East, homogenising the lens through which the Arab world was viewed – primarily from a colonial gaze. A decolonial approach to history would require one to look towards the stories of indigenous peoples who have been forced into resistance, and through the songs, poems, and artworks made by those who bear witness to their existence. In recent months, the activism of student protesters has gained momentum, with students at top universities staging encampments demanding their institutions to take a stand against the support and funding of Israel’s defence forces.⁴² For the first time in modern history, 146 out of 193 UN members recognise Palestine as an independent state.⁴³  Celebrities have begun campaigns like “Artists for Ceasefire”, using their public and online platforms to raise awareness amongst their millions of followers.⁴⁴

While some sceptics remain unabashedly on the side of Israel, what has become evident is that the “conflict” is not between two equal sides. One side has access to the most advanced military weapons and strongest armies in the world, with unconditional financial and political support from nations like the United States, whereas the other side is a population forced into living under occupation since 1948, being driven out of their ancestral homeland through multiple massacres of their civilians over the decades, and denied access to basic human needs such as food, water, shelter, and healthcare. The ample visual evidence and awareness in the global population no longer leaves the word “genocide” to be contested.

Chomsky states:

“When Israel uses sophisticated attack jets and naval vessels to bomb densely-crowded refugee camps, schools, apartment blocks, mosques, and slums, with the result that the half of the casualties are women and children, these are war crimes. When it continues to blockade Gaza after a ceasefire, that’s an act of war. When it does so in order to keep the population in a state of constant desperation, it’s a form of genocide.”⁴⁵

At the time of writing this essay – nearly nine months since Israel’s military campaign began – there appears to be no sign of a permanent ceasefire as yet even now. What is different about this current situation, however, is that previously, wars and events of violence were limited to printed magazines and newspapers, or at the most, TV screens – all being curated by those in power. Now, the horrors of the conflict are available in high definition at one’s fingertips posted directly by those suffering the genocide of their people first-hand. Palestinians are forcing the world to no longer view these horrors safely as spectators, but to be confronted with the limitations of their own humanity as the macabre and grotesque dismemberment of innocent Palestinian lives is brought to the forefront of the average social media user’s feed. As Israel faces the International Court of Justice in which it is officially charged as committing genocide against the Palestinians, the collateral damage of innocent civilians in the name of political warfare may no longer be justified by propaganda machines that continue churning false narratives, as the worldwide population grows hyper-aware of how governments operate and the capitalistic greed that drives them. Visual media and internet technology is at its most advanced form in current human history, allowing individuals to bear witness to world events such as these through their own participation in global politics at the intersection of visual culture. This seems to have awoken something in the worldwide population that has forced civilians to march out onto the streets to demand a ceasefire and refuse to allow this massacre to unfold in front of their eyes, not just in the form of rallies, but also vocalising their protests through writing, podcasts, and artwork, which will immortalise the legacies of this event in history more accurately than the complicit actions of government politics.

“Olive Branch” curated by Nafisa Rizvi was on display at Koel Gallery from 30th Jan – 10th Feb, 2024.

All images, courtesy @Koel Gallery

Title image: Salima Hashmi, Family – I, Mixed media on archival paper, 13 x 19 inches, 2024