In The Wake Of Shattered Ground: On Assemblies And Allyship

What does it mean to come together today, when the ground beneath us is shattered—both literally and physically? How can cultural practices adapt to systemic pressures while retaining a sense of autonomy and critical distance? In this conversation, Syrian playwright and cultural organiser Abdullah Alkafri and Belgian Middle East scholar and human rights defender Brigitte Herremans search for a language that captures these fragile forms of gathering.

Abdullah Alkafri, director of Ettijahat – Independent Culture, has spent over a decade working alongside artists in Syria and across the diaspora. In a landscape shaped by conflict, displacement, and surveillance, he has helped build networks that enable artistic production while experimenting with new modes of cultural solidarity—assemblies that emerge not despite the margins, but through them.

Brigitte Herremans, a postdoctoral researcher at the Human Rights Centre of Ghent University, explores how art and literature can act where institutions fall short. How they can render justice visible amid forces of erasure and invisibilisation. Focusing on Syria and Palestine, her work explores how stories resist erasure and how cultural practices can produce forms of counter-memory that challenge official histories. From her position in Europe, she interrogates the asymmetries embedded in cultural collaboration and reflects on what true allyship requires.

Alkafri and Herremans are familiar with each other’s work. Their dialogue—rooted in mutual trust and years of collaboration—moves between Brussels, Damascus, and Gaza; between the archive and the street; between minor gestures and systemic critique. What unfolds is not a definition of assembly, but a living trace: of poetry as resistance, of artists navigating visibility and risk, and of solidarity that demands more than good intentions.

Quiet resistance, fragmented grounds

Tom: Let’s begin with the idea that assemblies often emerge through fragmentation. Abdullah, your work with Ettijahat – Independent Culture has long explored how creative infrastructures persist amid rupture and displacement. In your experience, what kinds of assembly—whether rooted in memory, collaboration, or solidarity—have proven most resilient?

Abdullah: As you point out, assemblies don’t simply survive fragmentation, they often emerge from it. In Syria, fragmentation wasn’t just the result of war; it was a tactic of authoritarian rule. The regime didn’t merely control institutions but criminalised gathering itself. Even a conversation between three people could be construed as suspicious. Fear became spatial, atmospheric. It filled the streets and seeped into homes, where portraits of Hafez and Bashar al-Assad watched over everything.

Alkafri: ‘Assemblies don’t simply survive fragmentation, they often emerge from it.’

Still, informal assemblies found ways to exist, quietly, insistently. There were kitchen meetings, impromptu workshops, private gatherings inside public institutions, led by people thinking independently. These were not always visible, but they were intentional. This is the space Ettijahat stepped into: one not tied to legality or permanence, but to the ethics of listening and sustaining creative life through uncertainty.

A recent example shaped through this kind of support is Assemblage: Dark Nights onto Rolling Waves, a collaborative book by the artist Mohamad Omran and the writer Odai Al Zoubi. Through Ettijahat’s funding and framework, they created a work that defies linear storytelling. It’s a gathering in book form—of voices from exile, drawings, fragments of memory, and historical traces. It doesn’t seek coherence. It leans into rupture, and in doing so, it becomes a testament to informal, diasporic assembly.

Tom: That history provides essential context. What changed in 2011? How did the revolution reshape how people assembled?

Abdullah: 2011 marked a seismic shift. The revolution was, at its core, a reclaiming of public space—of presence. Protests started in mosques because there were no other spaces left: no civic halls, no parties, no parks. Every taxi driver might be part of the security services …

People developed tactics that mirrored guerrilla art—appear, act, disappear. I remember a Tunisian installation where protest chants were broadcast from a rooftop speaker planted in a bag. The person vanished, but the protest echoed below. In another case, secret police slipped on oil while chasing a sound source. Once, they confiscated an entire bike just to remove a speaker that was attached to it. These were fleeting, playful, courageous assertions of public voice.

Over the years, Syrians have adapted to living in transition. Cross-sector collaborations became a form of survival, a way to keep assembling through fragility.

Brigitte: Still, we shouldn’t reduce everything to a before-and-after of 2011. Acts of dissent predate the revolution. Think of prison literature, or the work of Sa’dallah Wannous, a Syrian playwright, journalist, and cultural critic who used poetic allegory to critique the regime. People met in diwans—literary salons where poetry and politics intertwined. The Damascus Spring (2000–2001) was another brief opening.

Alkarfri: ‘People developed tactics that mirrored guerrilla art—appear, act, disappear.’

Yet it cannot be denied that the events of 2011 catalysed a cultural revolution. This was manifest in the literary scene, where many writers began to abandon abstract, elevated language—exemplified by the poetry of Adunis—in favour of more direct, urgent expression. Adunis dismissed the revolution’s roots in the mosque, as if that origin undermined its legitimacy. But younger generations pushed back. They launched independent journals, self-published, and bypassed traditional gatekeepers. Poet Ghayath Almadhoun once told me: 'We no longer say the sky is crying. We just say—it’s raining.' Pain no longer needed metaphor. Assemblies grew to include new voices who posed difficult questions and unsettled long-standing hierarchies.

Tom: So these assemblies weren’t only political—they reshaped how people speak, relate, and imagine themselves. What has held such assemblies together over the past decade?

Abdullah: Shared risk. A sense of urgency. And the willingness to remain in dialogue, even when there’s disagreement. People can have real political differences and still find common ground—if those differences are named openly. After the earthquake in 2023, something shifted. Everyone seemed to focus on the country first. Even five euros sent from someone in the diaspora felt like part of a fragile, collective understanding.

Working from the margins became a tactic. The revolution began in marginal places. That marginality turned into a creative force—in aesthetics, narrative, strategy. You can inhabit the margin even in Brussels; it’s a mindset, a technique for surviving and connecting. Solidarity, too, matters. Some said Palestine ‘stole the spotlight’ from Syria. That’s a false logic. Supporting Palestine affirms our values. Dockworkers refusing to ship arms—that’s real action. Supporting Gaza, women’s rights, LGBTQI+ and Indigenous struggles are all forms of broader solidarity that keep our own stories alive.

Brigitte: Many Syrian artists now identify as Syrian German, Syrian Belgian. That’s not just personal—it’s collective, born of loss, exile, and the effort to belong. You flee, leave family behind, sometimes without saying goodbye. How do you carry both your Syrian and European identities? It’s not easy.

We’ve also seen solidarities fracture, with some outsiders questioning the very purpose of the revolution—people saying, ‘We knew it wouldn’t work.’ I reject that. We must resist simplistic binaries. For me—and I believe for Abdullah as well—it’s about maintaining a position of critical independence: refusing to conform to external expectations or to hegemonic discourses that paint the SWANA region as incapable of change. It means staying attuned to the demands and struggles of the communities we work with, and standing with them in their pursuit of justice and accountability.

Herremans: ‘Real culture must be disruptive. It must be able to hold the unresolved’.

Culture can serve as a space to expand our understanding of justice. Institutions tend to play it safe, following established pathways. This makes it difficult for them to imagine or open up truly new spaces. But real culture must be disruptive. It must be able to hold the unresolved. That’s where justice can begin. It’s a painful space, though—it makes us ask hard questions. In contexts like Syria, art can challenge hegemonic narratives and stereotypes. Rather than emphasising the vulnerability of passive victims, it aligns with justice-oriented initiatives by highlighting the agency and expertise of survivors. In doing so, art becomes a vital contributor to knowledge production.

Practising allyship

Tom: You both mention the role of solidarity: Let’s talk about allyship and funding. How do we move from symbolic gestures to real practices of shared risk and responsibility? Abdullah, based on your experience with European funders, what separates genuine collaboration from shallow solidarity?

Abdullah: We’ve been lucky with some funders who approach cultural work with care, even when power imbalances—money, passports, language—are in play. But the deeper question is always: Where does the money come from, and how is it distributed? Reports by Oxfam and other organisations show that wealth is absurdly concentrated. In the Arab region, foreign funding is often viewed with suspicion. It has become associated with conspiracy because of the legacy of colonialism and state propaganda. At Ettijahat, we ask: Who provides this money, and what values ride along?

We accept public European funding for its transparency. With private donors, we look for alignment. Not total agreement—we meet halfway—but we never implement someone else’s vision. Our work has to make sense in our context.

We also cap any single funder at 25 percent of our budget to maintain flexibility. Palestinians have been particularly effective at this, often thanks to strong diasporic networks. In Syria, the situation is more complex—the political landscape is deeply fragmented, and the diaspora lacks widely recognised figures who can serve as unifying voices for civil society. Unlike Palestine, which has a clear and cohesive narrative centred on occupation, Syria’s struggle is more diffuse, making collective advocacy more difficult.

Herremans: ‘Predictably—culture is always the first to be sacrificed. That old cliché returns: “If there’s no bread, why theatre?”’

But globally, it's clear: More money flows to weapons than to justice, culture, or climate. Europe loses out, too. We must rethink growth—not expand, but consolidate. Cut to sustain. And we reject punitive funding, like defunding Palestinian groups as a form of punishment. Cultural actors must have the right to refuse money from unethical sources without being pushed to the brink.

That said, I believe in the strength of Arab institutions. And I derive hope from funders who question their own structures and recognise how colonial aftershocks still shape the field.

At the same time, allyship can’t be performative. It demands a careful balance—being present without taking up too much space. In our region, the personal often stays in the background when we talk about solidarity, but it’s always there, shaping how we show up. Ethical allyship means acknowledging your position, taking responsibility, and knowing when to step back. That kind of presence—visible but not overpowering—is difficult, but necessary.

Brigitte: Cuts to USAID—the U.S. Agency for International Development—and the National Endowment for Democracy (NED) are already having a tangible impact on the ground, especially in Syrian and Palestinian civil society. And—predictably—culture is always the first to be sacrificed. That old cliché returns: ‘If there’s no bread, why theatre?’

But even now, in Gaza, people are holding theatre workshops. I support Child Smile, a grassroots initiative founded after October 2023 by actors from the NGO Theatre Day Productions. They operate under extreme conditions, often relying on crowdfunding campaigns like GoFundMe, since Israel blocks direct financial transfers.

At the same time, international institutions and NGOs are increasingly unable to work in Gaza at all. Hundreds of civil society organisations have been destroyed. The consequences of Israel’s annihilatory war go beyond infrastructure—they’re fragmenting the very fabric of collective life. In this context, solidarity becomes increasingly individualised, and people are left more isolated than ever, all while bearing the weight of an ongoing genocide.

Palestine has exposed the hypocrisy of cultural solidarity. Germany has adopted a policy of universal jurisdiction to prosecute crimes committed in Syria, such as those carried out by the Assad regime during the civil war, while at the same time suppressing those who speak up for Palestinian rights. Artists are told not to speak politically. Stating that Israel is a colonial state is a taboo. European politicians stand in solidarity with Ukraine, but Palestine is ‘complicated.’

Donor expectations often neutralise the political force of cultural work. Donors seek visibility without disruption, supporting surface-level initiatives while steering clear of anything that challenges power. When entire sectors of Palestinian civil society are dismantled under false pretences and donors remain complicit, aid becomes little more than window dressing.

Tom: Brigitte, how do you handle the tension between European expectations and the knowledge of artists and writers from the region? What does ethical allyship mean in moments of complicity?

Brigitte: It’s hard. Before 7 October, I still believed in dialogue with people who find Palestine complicated. Now I don’t. I won’t sit on panels with people who deny international law for Palestinians. I’ve become more radical. We must use the power we have. Compromise is part of it—but never on core principles.

I retreat more. I stay close to people who get it. I still talk to colleagues in Palestine and in Israel. I welcome those who’ve finally ‘seen the light’, but I am also disappointed by their cowardice, as they remained silent for 18 months of genocide. You can’t sit on the fence anymore. Palestine has been cast out of humanity. And Europe is complicit. So I speak more clearly. Not because my views are radical, but because they affirm basic human dignity. I won’t play language games. Out of respect for those who can’t afford to.

Abdullah: That’s why we need to rethink our model. Even like-minded support has limits. You hit a point where you feel drained. So maybe it’s time to work smaller, but deeper. Focus not on growth, but on independence. This market thinking is new for us—but maybe it’s necessary.

Herremans: ‘Artists are finding ways to move beyond being seen only as victims. They are survivors—people who’ve already broken silences under repressive regimes.’

Long-term projects may no longer be viable. Shorter initiatives, with room for reflection, could prove more sustainable. We’re closing a chapter in philanthropic work. At the same time, a new chapter is beginning, sped up by the pandemic. Seeing USAID being ‘linked to designated terrorist organisations’ and U.S. philanthropists facing bans—it’s dangerous. If those policies pass, millions could be affected. So the question is: How do we keep working while challenging the conditions themselves? I understand why people are tired. It’s a lot.

Brigitte: Yet there’s new energy too—like the student encampments. They’re relentless. Instagram has become a tool for poetry and protest. It doesn’t pay the rent, but it gives voice. Despite the fatigue, the energy hasn’t disappeared. At the start of the war on Gaza, many major institutions in Belgium were ready to act. Some turned to BDS (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions), but there are many other ways—co-creating with writers and artists from the region, for example. Even conservative spaces are beginning to acknowledge what’s happening. It can’t remain unseen any longer.

Margins in the spotlight

Tom: Both of you have worked closely with artists, writers, and cultural organisations on the ground. In an era flooded with digital images—of protest, destruction, and survival—how can these voices remain visible without being reduced to spectacle or stereotype? How do we protect the fragile spaces where counter-memory and resistance can still take shape?

Brigitte: Yes, there’s often pressure to conform to a certain image—especially one that aligns with Western expectations of trauma or victimhood. But within those frames, many Syrian artists have managed to assert powerful, layered voices.

Take For Sama. It follows a Western co-production model, but Waad al-Kateab used it to pierce the wall of silence around Aleppo. Or the novel The Planet of Clay by Samar Yazbek, which leans into a victim narrative but made the chemical attacks on Syria visible to a broader public.

Artists are finding ways to move beyond being seen only as victims. They are survivors—people who’ve already broken silences under repressive regimes. That same strength helps them navigate the silences here. Visual installations like Khaled Barakeh’s Mute do this too, in a way that is clear, powerful, and smart. They document violence and resistance without trying to elicit pity.

Herremans: ‘People in Gaza are navigating darkness. Art shouldn’t comfort us; it should sharpen our sense of what’s real.’

The Syrian and Palestinian stories are stories of erasure. The challenge is how to survive that—and how to reclaim space and mobilise for justice. In that sense, those experiences echo other historic traumas. Even under extreme conditions, powerful poetry continues to come out of Gaza. It speaks to the experience of being pushed beyond the borders of what the world seems to recognize as humanity. The poems of Doha Katlout and Ramzi Salem, published on the platform ArabLit, offer one glimpse into this reality. Often written in compressed, stripped-down forms, their work offers a quiet but pointed critique. Fady Joudah’s translations open up another path into this world of language under siege.

More problematic are the tropes of “collaboration” and “hope”—especially when people frame Palestinian art as meaningful only in dialogue with Israeli artists. That’s not necessary. And the insistence on hope can be disorienting. People in Gaza are navigating darkness. Art shouldn’t comfort us; it should sharpen our sense of what’s real.

Abdullah: I think that’s exactly why the margin matters. In Syria, the revolution began in peripheral places—it taught us to trust what’s outside the spotlight. This shift is happening in culture too. Writers without formal training or big-city networks are gaining recognition, broadening the field.

Working from the margins is a matter of both survival and choice. It’s what has sustained us for fourteen years. And that mindset travels—you can carry it anywhere, even from the centre of Brussels. It’s about how you work, who you work with, and what you pay attention to.

But margins are delicate. They vanish easily. Archives disappear, like YouTube footage from the Egyptian revolution. The same has happened in Syria, and in Tunisia. There’s beauty in the ephemeral, but also real loss. And in the absence of formal mechanisms, digital images—of protest, destruction, or everyday survival—become part of how memory is assembled. But they can also retraumatise, or be stripped of meaning. These aren’t neutral documents; they’re charged, and often misused.

At Ettijahat, we support artists who treat such material with care. That means giving context, respecting authorship, and resisting spectacle. And it means showing more than trauma, giving attention to resilience, daily life, the ways people quietly rebuild meaning.

This is the question I live with: how to protect these fragile spaces while keeping them visible. Labels like ‘refugee artist’ can flatten people’s work, even when well meant. So we try to create critical, safe spaces with partners who share our values. Artists we support are well-informed, paid, and position themselves with integrity. They don’t try to tick boxes, but speak on their own terms.

Fierce assemblies

Tom: Given the pressures on freedom, funding, and allyship since 2011, what kind of assemblies feel urgent now—culturally and politically?

Alkafri: ‘Assemblies must be rooted in solidarity. Supporting Palestine, Indigenous struggles, LGBTQI+ rights—these aren’t distractions, they form part of that same fabric of solidarity.’

Abdullah: We need assemblies that carry the spirit of the margins—where exclusion was transformed into strength. The revolution taught us that real change begins far from the centre. Even amid deep divisions, Syrians found ways to agree on essentials. Disagreement, in crisis, became a form of clarity. But assemblies must be rooted in solidarity.

Supporting Palestine, Indigenous struggles, LGBTQI+ rights—these aren’t distractions, they form part of that same fabric of solidarity. Independence matters. At Ettijahat, we may work small, but the impact is real. The challenge is protecting these fragile spaces—brief openings in the midst of crisis—before they’re erased.

Brigitte: I fully agree. We need cultural practices that are fiercely independent and ethically uncompromising. In this pitch-black moment, assemblies may need to take radical positions—or step away from complicit systems.

Cultural work must stay rooted in lived struggle, not shaped by external demands. Syrian and Palestinian artists, especially, face pressure to fit Western narratives—we must resist that. Real allyship means shared risk, not symbolic gestures. European institutions often offer support that’s merely performative, thus maintaining the status quo rather than enabling true change. Even with limited means, culture must remain vital and disruptive. Think of theatre collectives in Gaza. These practices hold space for what’s unfinished—for life, difference, and memory—when justice feels far away.

This contribution was originally published in Trigger 6: Assemblies (October 2026), the first volume in Trigger’s new annual book series by FOMU – Museum of Photography (Antwerp), guest-edited by Taous Dahmani in collaboration with FOMU editor Tom Viaene. Known for her critical focus on political photography in the SWANA region (Southwest Asia and North Africa), she foregrounds voices that resist reduction to narratives of violence or victimhood. Assemblies explores how gathering—whether in protest, ritual, or print—remains a precarious yet vital act, asking what it means to assemble when gathering itself has become a radical gesture of solidarity and imagination. Bringing together photography, personal essays, and archival material, Assemblies redefines what collectivity can mean today and tomorrow.

About Trigger: A publication from FOMU for critical reflection on/through photography—uniting artists, writers, scholars, and practitioners to challenge narratives and amplify overlooked perspectives.