Art and Life: Untitled artwork by Berlin-based Syrian artist Sulafa Hijazi Art and Life: Untitled artwork by Berlin-based Syrian artist Sulafa Hijazi She says: When are we gonna meet?
I say: After a year and a war
lucky 777 casinoShe says: When does the war end?
I say: The time we meet
—Mahmoud Darwish
It had taken Rania Abu Anza ten long years of waiting and three rounds of IVF to become a mother—a mother of twins. Five months later, her world was shattered in just one horrifying instant in which she lost the twins, her husband and 11 other members of the family to an Israeli airstrike on Rafah. Only hours earlier, she had cradled the five-month-olds, Naeim and Wissam, in her arms, lulling them to sleep. Their home collapsed in the explosion.
“Their father took them with him and left me behind,” Rania whispers through her tears, clutching a baby’s blanket. Her loss is a portrait of love’s persistent fragility in the face of war’s unforgiving brutality. What do we think of when we think about love? What do we think about when we think of war and genocide? In the rubble-strewn streets of Gaza, the besieged cities of Bosnia, the fractured lives in Syria, the horrors of the Rwandan genocide—in war zones across the world, where survival often eclipses all else—love exists as a profound act of defiance, and as the thread that weaves the narratives of those who endure.
An Act of ResistanceThe ongoing genocide in Palestine has brought new meanings to the word love and its manifestations. Palestinians, in their resistance, have not forgotten their tenderness and need to love—filial and romantic. Take Khaled Nabhan, for instance, whose story is one of profound love and loss. After an Israeli attack claimed the life of his three-year-old granddaughter Reem—the “soul of my soul”, as he tearfully described what he lost with her—Khaled’s grief resonated worldwide. Footage of him cradling her lifeless body captured the unthinkable pain of war. Homeless and displaced, Khaled’s humanity came shining through in his acts of mutual aid and solidarity, such as helping feed other displaced Palestinians like him in besieged Gaza—until he fell during the Israeli bombing of Nuseirat camp. His life and the story of what he lost stand as heartbreaking reminders of war’s relentless toll on love and resilience.
For those who endure wars and conflict, love is a deeply political act that resists the dehumanisation wrought by conflict. The blockades, bombings, checkpoints, displacement, imprisonment—all serve as barriers not just to movement, but to intimacy. And it is in the shadow of the unrelenting occupation by Israel that love unfolds in Palestine. Even as visuals of the genocide on social media feeds belong to the realm of nightmarish horror, there are also young people getting married to their beloveds in the shelter camps, the background score of blaring sirens and bomb blasts notwithstanding.
Promises of living with each other—“in health and in sickness”—in a time of war make for grim imagery. Syrian photographer Jafar Meray’s photos of newlyweds in the backdrop of ruins in war-torn Syria in 2016 became the face of love amidst destruction. A woman clad in a white wedding gown and her husband in his uniform became a symbol of love as an act of defiance. Meray’s project ‘Love Reconstructs Syria’ was a wedding photoshoot done in the backdrop of the Syrian civil war that left 250,000 people dead.
Meanwhile, South Korea were knocked out by the defending champions, India, with a 1-4 defeat in the semi-final. In their pool stage encounter, South Korea had previously played to a 2-2 draw against their next opponent, Pakistan.
For queer individuals, war compounds the marginalisation they already face, making their acts of love even more radical.In Syria, the protracted civil war has fractured families, destroyed homes and claimed hundreds of thousands of lives. Yet, even amidst this devastation, love remains a lifeline. ‘Syria: Love in a Time of War’, a project of the nonprofit GOAL Global, documents stories of couples who found solace in each other despite the despair. A poignant account is of a young couple who married in the ruins of Aleppo. The ceremony, held in the midst of rubble, was both a celebration of their union and a testament to their resilience. “We chose to love,” the bride said, “because it was the only thing that felt normal.” Such stories remind us that love is not merely a passive sentiment but an active choice—a way to reclaim agency in a world that seeks to strip it away.
Love has always been the last act of resilience in historical conflicts, wars and genocides. “When you meet your soulmate, it doesn’t matter where or when you live. I would do it again beyond any doubt,” said Emir Klaic, looking at Sanela whom he had met, fell in love with and married in 1995 during the siege of Sarajevo by the Bosnian Serbs. Their love has been immortalised in the ‘The Wartime Love Project’ exhibition, which captures intimate moments that defied the horrors of ethnic cleansing during the Bosnian war that left indelible scars on the psyche of survivors. Their union was fraught with danger due to the war but also filled with insurmountable love.
Similar stories of affection have been documented from the Holocaust and displayed in museums and exhibitions or passed down through generations as family heirlooms, symbolising faith and resilience.
In Shadows and Silence“I do not know how long I will live so I just want this to be my memory here before I die,” reads an entry on Queering the Map, a platform that offers glimpses into the lives of LGBTQ+ individuals who navigate love amidst violence. “I am not going to leave my home, come what may. My biggest regret is not kissing this one guy. He died two days back. We had told each other how much we like each other and I was too shy to kiss last time. He died in the bombing. I think a big part of me died too. And soon I will be dead. To Younus, I will kiss you in heaven.” Queer love in war zones often remains in the shadows, yet it is no less potent. Another entry from the Middle East reads, “We kissed under the curfew. The streets were empty except for us and the stars.”
Aleksander’s (name changed) is another such story. He had been living in Berlin for over 10 years when the war broke out between Russia and Ukraine. Anxious, he tried to return to meet with his family and friends but couldn’t. “My family got out but Ivan is still there. I first saw him when I was in high school. He is my heart but I don’t know when I will see him again,” he said. The two had been planning to elope to Sweden to get married and live their life together. Now, he waits for the beeping of his phone in case Ivan has dropped a text.
For queer individuals, war compounds the marginalisation they already face, making their acts of love even more radical. Despite the risks, they persist, carving out spaces for intimacy and connection in environments designed to erase them. Love in the time of war defies categorization by encompassing the full spectrum of human connection. It is whispered under curfews, celebrated in ruins and chosen in the face of overwhelming loss.
In Defiance of WarEdward Said spoke of memory as resistance, suggesting that the act of remembering—and loving—is an act of survival against erasure. The stories of love in Palestine, Bosnia, Syria and other regions of conflict are not just tales of loss; they are monuments of defiance against war’s attempt to annihilate identity and connection. In choosing love, these individuals reclaim agency, crafting lives of meaning and care in the face of unimaginable brutality.
“We love because it’s the only true adventure,” Nikki Giovanni reminds us. War strips people of the familiar—their homes, families and futures—but it cannot extinguish the adventurous, audacious act of loving. Whether it is a mother singing to her children in Gaza, or a couple marrying amidst the rubble of Aleppo, love transcends destruction and asserts that something whole remains even in fractured worlds.
(This appeared in the print as 'Against the Loveless World')tiger go