By Juline Beaujouan
When I first began working with a group of young artists in northern Syria in late 2020, they were creating in the midst of conflict. Their work emerged from trauma, displacement, and loss – art was, quite literally, a survival tool. It offered emotional release, a sense of identity, and a quiet form of resistance.
Now, after the Assad regime fell in December 2024 and Syria embarked on a long, uncertain path to recovery, many of these artists are back in their hometowns. The conflict has quieted, but the scars remain. This short blog explores their journey; it considers how the meaning and role of art has evolved in this new chapter. While some have found fresh inspiration in the quiet of post-conflict life, others feel their creative drive has changed – or faded – without the urgency of violence pressing in around them.
Art as Shelter, Voice, and Thread
The conflict in Syria lasted nearly fourteen years. During this time, art provided an emotional refuge. For many, it began as a private act of self-healing and grew into a public practice of expression and community connection. In a context where words were often suppressed and institutions absent, art became a powerful language.
It helped artists process trauma, reclaim identity, and tell stories that might otherwise be forgotten. Community murals and small exhibitions brought people together and reminded them of shared humanity. The two exhibitions we organised in northwest Syria in April 2021 gave young artists a platform where they felt seen and understood – many spoke of the emotional power in simply knowing that someone was listening. Art became a silent reassurance: you are not alone.
Some believed art could influence broader narratives by capturing shared experiences – especially where few felt heard or seen as anything beyond victims of conflict. For many, the impact was not about changing policy but about reaching one person at a time – with empathy, understanding, and the shared weight of unspoken feelings.
When Creativity Meets Hard Reality
Still, art’s impact had limits. When basic needs went unmet, creativity was often side-lined. Materials were costly and hard to find – it took my colleague long hours of driving across the Turkish border just to source supplies to help artists contribute to the exhibitions. Even when they could create, opportunities for exposure were few. In many communities, art was seen as secondary – beautiful, but not essential.
Even those with strong artistic identities admitted their motivation had waned. One artist reflected on how their earlier works had emerged from depression and anxiety – emotions now too distant or exhausting to revisit. Another described how the lack of financial stability has pushed many to consider giving up – how creativity, a form of healing, can begin to feel like a luxury only pain or privilege can afford.
There was also the constant tension between symbolism and material reality. Art could raise awareness, but it could not rebuild homes, stop displacement, or guarantee change. While artists hoped to bridge social divides, their work was sometimes misunderstood – or simply ignored.
Syria in 2025: Returning to the Ruins – and the Canvas
Since late 2024, Syria has entered a new and complex phase. While the frontlines have quieted, the aftermath of war remains ever-present – visible in broken infrastructure, fragile livelihoods, and deep emotional fatigue. Many displaced artists have returned to their hometowns or relocated to more stable areas, trying to rebuild lives paused by over a decade of conflict. Others are too young to remember their country or imagine a life outside the shadows of war.
For some, this return has shifted their creative focus. The urgency of survival has given way to more reflective work – art that carries softer, more intimate messages: peace, memory, aging, and love. Where once canvases depicted destruction and displacement, some now imagine the beauty of quiet moments and the possibility of a gentler future. For instance, one artist shared a recent painting showing an elderly man serenading a woman – capturing a quiet respite, removed from war’s noise.
Yet, not all artists feel this transition clearly. For many, their creative drive was born out of raw emotions – grief, anger, isolation – and without the immediate intensity of conflict, the path forward can feel uncertain. Some are exploring new mediums like photography and film to express evolving realities, while others struggle to find meaning amid the slow and often painful process of recovery.
In this changed landscape, the artist’s role has shifted from active resistance toward personal and collective healing. But the weight has not lessened; it has simply changed. Art becomes a bridge between generations, a tool for remembrance and imagining futures still hard to define. Artists see themselves as storytellers and cultural workers – memory-keepers who help communities process trauma and hold space for unspoken pain. Others hope their work protects the next generation from repeating cycles of violence. Their work fosters understanding, connection, and hope.
At the same time, the burden of being an artist in post-conflict Syria remains heavy. Without sustainable income or strong community support, creativity still competes with survival. And while art may no longer be driven by immediate trauma, it still draws from deep wells of grief, longing, and the ongoing challenge of being human in a land marked by over a decade of violence.
Still Creating, Still Human
Art in Syria today carries complex layers of grief and longing, but also strength and hope. Even amid ruins, creativity persists – not just as survival, but as a vital thread in rebuilding fractured lives and envisioning lasting peace.
The artist’s place is not straightforward. It has evolved alongside a shifting landscape – from survival to storytelling, from protest to preservation. Now, in this fragile moment of relative calm, art is being asked to do something new: to help rebuild and move forward.
To quote one of these artisans of hope: “In war, we painted because we had nothing else. Now, we paint because we have something to rebuild”.
Juline Beaujouan is a Senior Research Fellow with the Peace and Conflict Resolution Evidence Platform (PeaceRep) at the University of Edinburgh. She is deeply grateful to the artists who trusted her and generously shared their stories.