The art of remembering: Lebanon’s memorials and the existential question of peace

4^min

By Mariella Succar

“Peace is never a perfect achievement. It is a constant process, a never-ending task.” – Kofi Annan, Nobel Peace Prize lecture, 2001

On September 21, the world observes the International Day of Peace. But in Lebanon, peace is not a settled truth — it is an open question. What does peace mean in a country where war memories are etched into the streets, where old divisions resurface with every crisis, and where even remembrance itself is controversial?

Walking through Beirut, the past meets you at every corner. Martyrs’ Square stands as a symbol of sacrifice but also of unfinished struggles. The Sursock Museum and Beirut Art Center reinterpret war and memory through art, forcing visitors to confront what many would prefer to forget. And then there are the murals — from Gemmayzeh to the southern suburbs — bold, unfiltered reminders of resilience, injustice, and survival painted onto city walls.

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Each of these spaces raises unspoken questions: Do we remember to unite, or to divide? Do we preserve memory to heal, or to reopen wounds?

Peace in Lebanon is fragile precisely because memory is fragmented. Some memorials are embraced by one community and rejected by another. Murals that glorify resilience for some can feel like provocation to others. Scholars warn that when societies disagree on their past, reconciliation becomes even harder. But does silencing memory help? Or does it only deepen the wounds?

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Despite the controversies, there are lessons worth drawing. At Martyrs’ Square, a plaque whispers of the cost of freedom. At Sursock, art reframes trauma into dialogue. Street murals carry voices that politicians often ignore — voices demanding justice, dignity, coexistence.

Even without words, these places teach. They remind us that peace is not the absence of conflict, but the ability to live with memory without letting it consume us.

In Lebanon, peace feels like an existential crisis. It is not just about stopping violence — it is about how we define ourselves as a people. Can a country fractured by memory ever build a future of coexistence? Can murals, plaques, and museums carry enough weight to bridge divides that politics refuses to mend?

The answers may lie in small steps. Walking tours that connect Martyrs’ Square, Sursock, and Beirut’s murals could turn memory into education. Schools could adopt nearby memorials as living classrooms. Artists and young people could reinterpret Lebanon’s past through photography and storytelling. These gestures won’t solve political deadlock, but they can chip away at indifference.

Kofi Annan once said peace is a never-ending task — and nowhere is that more true than in Lebanon. Here, peace is not signed on paper; it is built on memory, argued over in cafés, painted on walls, and mourned in squares.
Our memorials and murals are not relics of the past — they are warnings and invitations. Warnings of what happens when we forget, and invitations to imagine something better.
In Lebanon, remembering is not about nostalgia. It is about survival — and about whether we can transform memory from a burden into the foundation of a future where peace is more than a pause between wars.

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