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Back Story

The revolution is an idea and ideas never die”: the Syrian filmmaker whose lens became a window to the world

The year is 2019, and the crowd at the Cannes Film Festival is on its feet – it has just given a 6-minute standing ovation to the winner of the Prix L’Œil d’or for best documentary. A special showing of the piece has drawn smiles and applause around the world, but tears also glisten on the faces of many. They are, as I am now, incredibly fortunate to have seen the brilliantly moving work For Sama, which takes almost 500 hours of Waad al-Kateab’s footage from war-torn Aleppo and uses it to tell her remarkable story. Sama is the name of al-Kateab’s first daughter, and in Arabic it means ‘sky’ – one which her parents dreamed of seeing clear, blue, and free of the marks of war.

As her work explains, Waad was not always a filmmaker. Even her name is a pseudonym, adopted as she started posting online to protect her family from the regime. When the Syrian revolution erupted in March 2011, she was in her final year as an economics student at the University of Aleppo, filming peaceful protests against the Assad government from a mobile phone camera. By the time she was forced into exile in 2016, she had captured her entire life in the war – falling in love, getting married, giving birth to Sama and becoming a mother, all amidst the atrocities of the regime. So how did a student become a citizen journalist, and make her way from a makeshift hospital to a global platform? And why was it so necessary?

In an article written for the Financial Times she describes the early days of recording via phone and a small Sony Handycam, given to her by a friend because it was small enough to get footage from the safety of her bag. She wanted to provide proof to friends and family outside Syria of the protests taking place – the existence of which was denied by the Assad government. As time went on, however, the importance of documenting what was happening to her people became ever clearer; Waad had no choice but to stay and continue to resist the oppression. The camera became her defiance. Speaking years later at the 2021 Geneva Summit for Human Rights she explained that “everything Assad did was meant to silence us, to make it as if we never existed. And we will never give him that privilege.”

This, perhaps, was the greatest achievement of a film which accomplished so many extraordinary things. The vital humanity both undeniable and unforgettable in all those who cross the screen places the viewer right in the centre of a conflict they might have considered distant; every face lingers long after it has moved on. Waad takes you with her to watch her life unfold: how she falls in love with the smile of her husband Hamza, the choice they made every day to stay, the birth of her daughter, and the move from living in one hospital to another when the first was bombed. She allows you to see her world through her own eyes as the situation in Aleppo worsens: the massacre of January 29^th 2013, losing her friends Gaith and Omar to shelling, the children who knew what a cluster bomb was. The people she sees every day are the ones for whom the her work bears witness, epitomised by the moment where a grieving mother recognises the camera and reacts not with anger but with a shout of: “Film this!”.

Al-Kateab told the Guardian that in that moment, for that mother, the lens of the camera “was, for her, the world outside.” It was for this reason that it became so important she stayed and continued her work – to give testimony to the grief inflicted on those around her. That testimony would later gain a much broader reach, thanks to her commission by Channel 4 in 2015 to make short reports about life in her city. They reached massive audiences online, and continued to cover her days under siege in 2016 – by which time Hamza was one of just a handful of doctors remaining in East Aleppo. Their roles as medic and journalist meant that the couple continued living and working around the clock in the city’s last remaining hospital. Sama was only a year old. The risk to Waad and her family was growing ever greater, and yet the couple believed their work would always be the greater cause, even if it meant sneaking back across frontlines to return to their broken city.

The final moments of al-Kateab’s documentary capture the days when, offered no choice, the family was forced to leave Aleppo for a life of exile. She described this later as ‘the moment which really broke her’ – being forced to say goodbye to her home, the hospital, and the people they knew: everything they had stayed for. Even now, she can watch all of her film except the end, where she whispers the heartbreaking questions to an infant Sama: “Will you blame me for staying here? Will you blame me for leaving now?”

Waad and Hamza remained for a year in Turkey – where their second daughter, Taima, was born – before moving to the UK. There she would begin to work through the countless hours of footage with British director Edward Watts, helped by her contact with Channel 4 and the content she had already produced for them. Together they undertook two difficult years of editing, which culminated in her documentary For Sama, now the most nominated in BAFTA history. Al-Kateab also co-founded the charity ‘Action For Sama’ to bring attention to the bombing of hospitals in Syria, and continues to campaign for human rights and accountability.

Her most important message, however, is the one told in the story put together with Watts. The first cut they made was chronological – it read as a descent from hope into desperation, with its images growing increasingly devastating. This wouldn’t do. Instead, the editing process was adapted to show what it became clear was a powerful love story, able to repeatedly break from the despair using Sama as a lifeline. Rather than a recounting of atrocity, the documentary tells a tale of marriage and motherhood, of friendship and human resolve in the face of tragedy. An hour or so of watching reminds you that the Waad and the citizens of Aleppo are not just victims but people, and that it is vitally important to see them as such. It reiterates the need for those responsible to be held to account, and to remember what happened. And it realises the power of a refugee’s story – just one amongst millions.

With the Assad regime finally falling in 2024, Waad has no doubt in her desire to return. She told UN News that she had “thought the ending of her story was dying in exile, not being able to go back, never being able to see this beautiful day”- a nightmare thankfully never realised. She will continue to fight to ensure transitional justice and the acknowledgement of what her community has experienced, using the skills she has learned as a journalist and filmmaker. The emotions in the audience at Cannes and around the world are a testament to the power of her story and its portrayal, but they are not enough. Waad al-Kateab herself will tell you: “I don’t want your tears, I want you to do something, you can make a difference.”

Links:

https://primetime.network/features/waad-al-kateab/

https://genevasummit.org/speech/waad-al-kateab-speaks-at-2021-geneva-summit/

https://www.actionforsama.com/home-2

https://news.un.org/en/story/2025/03/1161116

https://www.theguardian.com/film/2019/aug/25/for-sama-documentary-interview-waad-al-kateab

https://www.alphavillejournal.com/Issue20/HTML/ArticleMincheva.html

https://www.channel4.com/news/theres-now-hope-to-get-our-country-back-says-syrian-filmmaker

https://www.infomigrants.net/en/post/25743/syrian-filmmaker-waad-al-kateab-i-dont-want-your-tears-i-want-action

https://intimacies-of-remote-warfare.nl/media/documentary/for-sama/

In this post Finbar highlights the arty refugee experience of Waad al-Kateab. He is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. He also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

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Backstory

Post-conflict community: From Silence to Testimony: How Courts Helped Heal Cambodia After a Genocide

In 1975, the Khmer Rouge captured Cambodia’s capital. Phnom Penh was emptied in just two days. Two million people were forced to flee their homes. The capital became a ghost town. This marked the beginning of one of the deadliest genocides of the 20th century. Around one-fifth of the population did not survive the Khmer Rouge regime. Many died along jammed roads leading from the capital during the march into the countryside. They were forced to work in labour camps every day. Food was scarce. Many died from forced labour and starvation. Anyone who was too weak to work or who refused to was murdered.

The Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC) were established in 2006 to punish those most responsible for the crimes committed. The courts were created 30 years after the Khmer Rouge regime. It took 16 years to convict only three men at a cost of over 330 million dollars. This might seem like a failure. But the ECCC are widely considered to be successful. The courts prosecuted surviving Khmer Rouge leaders. The ECCC also helped Cambodians to recover from trauma by breaking the silence and establishing the facts of the crimes committed.

The Khmer Rouge was a radical communist movement. They claimed to transform Cambodian society into a classless agrarian utopia. Instead, they persecuted “intellectuals”, including doctors, teachers, and lawyers. Anyone wearing glasses or who could speak a foreign language was targeted for being “intellectual.” The Khmer Rouge also eliminated political opponents, ethnic and religious minorities. The ECCC controversially only applied the label “genocide” to the crimes committed against the Vietnamese and Cham Muslim minorities, excluding Chinese Cambodians. Raphael Lemkin legally defined genocide as “acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group.”

During the two trials, five Khmer Rouge leaders were prosecuted, but only three were sentenced. Duch was sentenced to life in prison for war crimes and crimes against humanity. He was the commander of the notorious S-21 prison where 14,000 were interrogated before being killed. Only seven people are known to have survived S-21. Many Cambodians died from imprisonment during the rule of the Khmer Rouge. Khieu Samphan and Nuon Chea were found guilty of genocide, war crimes, and crimes against humanity in the second trial. They were sentenced to life in prison. Nuon Chea was the movement’s chief ideologue and Khieu Samphan was Cambodia’s president. The ECCC was the first court to find a former head of state guilty of the crime of genocide.

Many escaped justice. The former Minister of Foreign Affairs Ieng Sary died before his trial ended. His wife, the former Minister of Social Affairs Ieng Thirith, escaped justice after being diagnosed with dementia. Some culprits were not even prosecuted because justice came too late. Pol Pot, the highest-ranking Khmer Rouge leader, died before the ECCC was even created. He never faced accountability. But the courts sent a strong message. No matter how much time has passed, those responsible for the worst crimes must be held accountable.

The ECCC were unique hybrid courts. Cambodian and international judges and lawyers enforced both domestic and international laws. However, this created tensions. The international co-prosecutor wanted to investigate a further five suspects, but this was blocked by Cambodian judges.

These courts fell victim to interference by political manipulation of the Cambodian government. The government was uncooperative in an attempt to shield officials who were members of the Khmer Rouge from prosecution. Hun Sen was a Khmer Rouge soldier and the Prime Minister at the time. He could have faced prosecution if the tribunal expanded its reach to low-ranking officials. Hun Sen argued that “going after any more than just the top leaders of the Khmer Rouge risked opening up wounds in Cambodian society.”

For decades, the population did not talk about the genocide. The older generation struggled to speak about their experience under the rule of the Khmer Rouge. They remained silent due to the lack of official recognition of the crimes. Some officials like Khieu Samphan even denied the crimes. He claimed that he was “not aware of the heinous acts committed by other leaders.” As a consequence, the younger generation knows little about the Khmer Rouge rule in a country where two-thirds of the population is under 30. In particular, the children of the 620,000 Cambodian refugees often know little about what happened to their ancestors.

The ECCC helped the country heal by breaking the silence. The court gave victims the opportunity to participate directly in the proceedings. During Duch’s trial, 22 victims testified, including some of the seven known S-21 survivors. For example, Chum Mey stated “I, who come to attend [the court hearings] every day, consider this court historic. I am already 79. And that I have been trying to do so is for the younger generations not to follow the path of the regime which ruled for three years, eight months and twenty days.” Many like Chum Mey waited 30 years for the opportunity to testify about the crimes committed.

Justice did more than punish. The population was given the opportunity to participate in the ECCC’s work. The proceedings occurred in the country where the crimes took place. The courts were built in the capital. The population could thus visit the site using buses commissioned by the ECCC. In total, a quarter of a million people attended the public hearings.

The ECCC improved the understanding of this period of Cambodian history. The courts led campaigns to educate school children about the Khmer Rouge regime and the courts’ work. Cambodian schools only began teaching students about the Khmer Rouge period after the tribunal’s creation.

The courts also contributed to the writing of the history of the Cambodian genocide. Most archives were destroyed by the Khmer Rouge regime in an effort to erase and rewrite history. Very few images exist to document the crimes, as the Khmer Rouge rejected modernity. No image was taken of the many executions. Films like The Missing Picture by Rithy Panh thus use clay figurines and a few archive images to tell the story of the Khmer Rouge period. Many S-21 prisoners were tortured into writing confessions in an attempt to rewrite history. Schools, universities, and tribunals were destroyed. As a result a large part of the population was illiterate. This complicates the writing of the history of the genocide.

Historians contributed to the ECCC’s creation and proceedings. For example, Ben Kiernan was one of the first to write the history of the Khmer Rouge regime. He also created the Documentation Center of Cambodia (DC-Cam) which collects data on the Khmer Rouge regime’s crimes. Historians like David Chandler participated in the legal proceedings. In total, 334 people testified, making nearly 4,000 statements. The courts produced over two million pages of archives in Khmer, French, and English. These are today used to write the history of the Khmer Rouge period.

The ECCC contributed to the healing of Cambodia after the traumatic rule of the Khmer Rouge. This highlights the important role that justice can play in reconciling post-conflict communities. The courts did more than punish some of those most responsible for the genocide. Testimonies helped break the silence. The ECCC produced archives used to write history, ensuring these events are never forgotten.

Sources -

Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia

A day at the Khmer Rouge Tribunal (English)

Khmer Rouge | Facts, Leadership, Genocide, & Death Toll | Britannica

Cambodian genocide | Description, Killing Fields, & Facts | Britannica

Former Khmer Rouge leaders begin genocide trial - BBC News

Khmer Rouge: What did a 16-year genocide trial achieve?

In Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge Trials Come to an End - The New York Times

In an Interview, Pol Pot Declares His Conscience Is Clear - The New York Times

From the archive, 11 December 1979: Deposed Pol Pot gives interview in the jungle

DOCUMENTATION CENTER OF CAMBODIA

After 16 years and 3 convictions, an international tribunal closes down in Cambodia

Khmer Rouge Tribunal - The Advocates for Human Rights

A Tribunal for Cambodia - United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

Khmer Rouge Trials – CJA

Bringing the Khmer Rouge to Justice: The Challenges and Risks Facing the Joint Tribunal in Cambodia

In this episode Laura discusses the post conflict experience of Cambodia following the Genocide. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Aleppo, an 8,000-year-old trade hub, faces a $31 billion recovery after years of war. While historic souks slowly reopen under new leadership, stability remains fragile. Private groups now lead the rebuilding of shattered landmarks. True recovery requires more than bricks; it means restoring the social trust of a fragmented population.

Aleppo rebuilds: recovery after ruin

Reconstruction is slowly renewing life in the ancient city of Aleppo - yet any sense of renewal is cautious, shaped by years of devastation, and now punctuated by fresh outbreaks of violence. The city’s recovery is not a story of swift transformation, rather of uneven progress, where visible signs of rebuilding coexist with deep uncertainty about the future.

Just a few years ago, Aleppo’s historic souks lay in ruins. Today, parts of them are stirring with life again. Newly rebuilt shops have begun to reopen, including cosmetic stores displaying items that would once have been unthinkable. Under the rule of former president Bashar al-Assad, many imports were heavily restricted; now, goods like perfume and CDs line the shelves. Even the way people pay has changed: customers increasingly use US dollars, something which, not long ago, could have led to imprisonment. These shifts reflect the broader changes that followed the fall of the previous regime on December 8th 2024, after 14 years of a destructive and devastating civil war.

Aleppo, Syria’s second-largest city - and long considered economic heart - has endured immense destruction. One of the world’s oldest continually inhabited cities, with a history stretching back roughly 8,000 years, it has faced countless crises, Yet few compare to the scale of devastation wrought by the Syrian Civil War. Even recent clashes - like the deadly fighting in mid-January between government forces and the Kurdish-led Syrian Democratic Forces - serve as reminders that instability has not fully receded.

The most catastrophic period came after the four-year Battle of Aleppo, from 2012-2016. Often referred to as ‘Syria’s Stalingrad,’ the conflict was marked by relentless bombardment and brutal urban warfare, with entire neighbourhoods being reduced to rubble. Today, the physical scars of that period remain starkly visible. Hollowed-out buildings, shattered facades, and vast stretches of concrete debris continue to define much of the city’s landscape. Reconstruction has been slow, hindered by a severe lack of funding and the sheer scale of damage. A World Bank report published in October estimated the cost of destruction across the Aleppo governorate at $31 billion - higher than in any other region of Syria.

At the centre of Aleppo’s historical and cultural identity lies its Ancient City, a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1986. This area, parts of which date back to the 11th century, contain some of Syria’s most treasured landmarks, including the Citadel and Umayyad Mosque. Before the war, it drew hundreds of thousands of tourists each year, and was home to around 120,000 residents. Its beating heart was the Old Souk - a labyrinthine, covered marketplace, stretching over 13 kilometres. Divided into specialised sections known as khans, the souk once offered everything from fine Persian silk to the city’s framed, handmade soaps.

Today, that world has profoundly changed. The population of the Ancient City has fallen to an estimated 40,000. According to UNESCO, around 60% of the souk suffered significant damage during the war, with another 30% being completely destroyed. What was once a thriving commercial hub is now only partially restored, its revival piecemeal and fragile.

In the absence of substantial state funding, much of the reconstruction has fallen to private organisations and non-governmental groups. Among the most prominent is the ‘Aga Khan Cultural Services - Syria’, which is part of the wider Aga Khan Development Network. Since beginning its work in the Old Souk in 2018, the organisation has restored 277 shops, many of which have been returned to their original owners. These efforts have played a crucial role in reviving economic activity, even if only on a limited scale.

Restoration work has also extended to some of the city’s historic buildings. The Al-Halawiyah Madrasa, for example, stands as a powerful symbol of both endurance and vulnerability. A site with more than 1,000 years of history, it has survived centuries of upheaval; yet today, it is in a precarious state. Wooden supports brace its weakened structure, preventing collapse, while bullet marks scar its walls. The building embodies the broader condition of Aleppo itself: still standing, but deeply injured.

Despite these efforts, the city is still far from reclaiming its former status as Syria’s economic centre. The nature of commerce in the souks has changed significantly. Where traders once specialised in high-quality goods and artisanal products, many shops now sell basic household items or inexpensive street food. The shift reflects both reduced purchasing power, and the altered priorities of a population focused on day-to-day survival.

Underlying this fragile recovery is a pervasive sense of uncertainty. Many residents remain wary, waiting to see how the country will evolve under its new leadership. The political transition has brought change, but not yet stability. For those who have returned or chosen to remain, the future remains unresolved.

The demographic transformation of Aleppo also adds another layer of complexity. Before the war, the city’s population stood at around three million. Today, estimates suggest that only about 900,000 people remain. At the same time, approximately 1.4 million internally displaced Syrians have arrived from other parts of the country. This dramatic shift has reshaped the city’s social fabric, with communities that developed over generations now being fragmented, replaced, or reconfigured by waves of displacement.

Rebuilding Aleppo is not simply a matter of bricks and mortar. It also involves restoring a sense of social cohesion that has been deeply eroded. Trust, shared identity, and community networks take far longer to rebuild than physical structures. In many ways, this invisible reconstruction is the most challenging of all. However, there are undeniable signs of progress. Shops reopening in the souk, heritage sites undergoing restoration, and the gradual return of economic activity all point towards a city attempting to recover.

Aleppo’s story is one of cautious hope. Neither defined by destruction nor emerged from its shadow, the city’s recovery remains incomplete. For now, Aleppo stands in a state of transition - caught between a past marked by profound loss, and a future still uncertain.

Backstory -

In this post Kiana highlights the post conflict expereine of Aleppo. She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services.

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After escaping the Lord’s Resistance Army, Grace Akallo and Evelyn Amony faced a new war: stigma. Communities often reject former abductees and their children. Yet, both women reclaimed their lives through education and advocacy. Their journey proves that survival is only the start; true peace requires belonging and understanding.

Backstory

Returning Home, Nowhere to Belong: Women, Stigma, and Life After the LRA

When Grace Akallo returned home, she was free- but not at peace.

Abducted at 15 when Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) soldiers broke into her school dormitory in northern Uganda, she was forced into a world of violence that no child should ever know. For seven months, she lived under constant threat, enduring beatings, torture, and witnessing the brutal killing and punishment of those who disobeyed orders. Like many other abducted children, she was forced to participate in violence, a reality that would follow her long after her escape.

Yet returning home did not mark the end of her suffering. Instead, it marked the beginning of a different kind of struggle- one defined not by physical captivity, but by stigma, isolation, and the challenge of rebuilding a life.

Uganda’s conflict with the LRA largely ended in the mid-2000s. But for many women who were abducted, forced into marriage, and returned with children born in captivity, the war’s impact continues to shape their ability to meet fundamental human needs: to belong, to be understood, to feel valued, and to build a meaningful identity. Through the experiences of women like Grace Akallo and Evelyn Amony, it becomes clear that the most enduring consequences of conflict are not only physical or economic, but deeply social and psychological.

The Struggle for Connection and Acceptance

For many returning women, the most immediate challenge is not survival, but belonging.

Communities in northern Uganda, themselves deeply traumatised by years of violence, often struggle to accept those who return from the LRA. Former abductees are sometimes viewed with suspicion or fear, associated with the violence they were forced to enact. In some cases, they are believed to be “contaminated” or even possessed by evil spirits. This stigma is particularly acute for women, who are often judged not only for their association with the LRA, but also for having been subjected to sexual violence.

Grace Akallo recalls the profound isolation she experienced upon returning. “I used to isolate myself a lot,” she explains, not only because of the abuse she endured, but because of the guilt she carried. “I felt guilty of surviving. I felt guilty of being free.” Her words reflect a painful reality, that freedom can come with emotional burdens that make connection extreamly difficult.

For women who return with children born in captivity, the barriers to acceptance are even greater. These children, often fathered by LRA commanders, can become symbols of the conflict itself. Families and communities may accept the returning woman, but reject her children or, in some cases, reject both. The result is a profound disruption of one of the most basic human needs: the need for love, connection, and social belonging.

The Need for Understanding

Closely tied to belonging is the need to be understood, not just as a returnee, but as a victim of coercion.

Evelyn Amony’s story illustrates how this need is often unmet. Abducted at just 11 years old, she was forced into marriage at 14 to Joseph Kony, the leader of the LRA. “You have no choice, you must be my wife,” she recalls being told. During her years in captivity, she bore three of his children.

When she returned home, however, her community did not see her simply as a survivor. Instead, she was often defined by her association with Kony. The stigma she faced was starkly illustrated when, following her mother’s death, a neighbour refused to attend the funeral prayers, saying: “I will not attend prayers for Margaret because her daughter is Kony’s wife.”

This moment captures the failure of understanding that shapes many women’s experiences. Despite being abducted as children and subjected to extreme coercion, they are often judged as if they had agency in their circumstances. The label of “wife”, even when forced, can overshadow their identity as victims, leaving them misunderstood and marginalised.

Identity, Esteem, and the Weight of Stigma

The lack of acceptance and understanding has profound consequences for identity and self-worth.

For many returning women, the question becomes: who am I now?

The transition from child to abductee, from forced “wife” to survivor, disrupts any stable sense of identity. What makes this harder is not just what they have been through, but how they are seen when they return. Many women find themselves defined by their time in captivity. Their identities become tied to experiences they never chose, shaping how they are treated, and over time, how they come to see themselves.

Grace Akallo’s reflections reveal the internal impact of this disruption. Her feelings of guilt and isolation speak to a deeper struggle for esteem: the need to feel valued, worthy, and accepted within society. Without this, rebuilding a sense of self becomes incredibly difficult.

Education, for Akallo, became a pathway toward reclaiming that sense of worth. “School was the best place I could be,” she explains. “Education gives hope. I have a hope of a future… I’ll be looked at as a contributing member of society.” Her words highlight how meeting the need for esteem is not only about external acceptance, but about creating opportunities to rebuild confidence and purpose.

For Evelyn Amony, the challenge of identity is equally complex. As a former “wife” of Kony and a mother, her identity is shaped by experiences that carry both personal trauma and social stigma. Yet her story also shows that identity is not fixed, it can be renegotiated and reclaimed.

Reclaiming Significance and Agency

While stigma and exclusion dominate many accounts of return, they are not the end of the story.

Both Akallo and Amony demonstrate that it is possible to move beyond survival and reclaim a sense of significance, another fundamental human need. This is not simply about rebuilding a life, but about finding meaning and purpose in the aftermath of trauma.

Grace Akallo has become a powerful advocate for former child soldiers, founding United Africans for Women and Children Rights. Her work is driven not by a desire to dwell on her own suffering, but by a commitment to others who continue to endure similar experiences. “Those girls are still suffering,” she says. “They are still being rejected… and then I sit down and I mourn? No.” Her refusal to remain in victimhood reflects a profound assertion of agency.

Similarly, Evelyn Amony has transformed her experiences into advocacy through the Women’s Advocacy Network, which supports survivors of conflict-related sexual violence. By sharing her story, including in her memoir, she challenges the stigma that once defined her. “Even if you’ve gone through painful experiences… you shouldn’t be defined by those experiences,” she states. “You can still do a lot to change the lives of others.”

In doing so, both women not only rebuild their own sense of identity and purpose, but also create spaces of belonging and understanding for others.

Beyond Survival

The stories of Grace Akallo and Evelyn Amony reveal that the end of conflict does not necessarily mean the restoration of peace, at least not in the lives of those who lived through it. For many women returning from the LRA, the struggle shifts from physical survival to meeting deeper human needs: to belong, to be understood, to feel valued, and to lead meaningful lives.

These needs are not secondary. They are fundamental. And when they are unmet, the consequences of conflict continue long after the violence has ended.

Yet these stories are not only about loss. They are also about resilience, agency, and the possibility of transformation. In reclaiming their voices, their identities, and their purpose, women like Akallo and Amony challenge the narratives that once confined them.

They are no longer defined solely by what was done to them. Instead, they are shaping what comes next.

References:

Amony, E. (2015) I Am Evelyn Amony: Reclaiming My Life from the Lord’s Resistance Army. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

Annan, J., Blattman, C., Mazurana, D. and Carlson, K. (2011) ‘Civil war, reintegration, and gender in Northern Uganda’, Journal of Conflict Resolution, 55(6), pp. 877–908.

Baines, E. (2017) Buried in the Heart: Women, Complex Victimhood and the War in Northern Uganda. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Denov, M. and Lakor, A.A. (2017) ‘When war is better than peace: The post-conflict realities of children born of wartime sexual violence in Northern Uganda’, Child Abuse & Neglect, 65, pp. 255–265.

United Nations (2013) Former child soldier Grace Akallo speaks to UNifeed. Available at: https://media.un.org/unifeed/en/asset/u130/u130730c

United Nations Women (2016) I Am Evelyn Amony: A memoir of war, rape and survival. Available at: https://www.unwomen.org/en/news/stories/2016/6/i-am-evelyn-amony-a-memoir-of-war-rape-and-survival

In this episode Rebecca discusses the post conflict experience of women’s expereince of war during the Lord’s Resistannce Armay in Uganda. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

In post-Civil War Lebanon, identity is something people are constantly trying to navigate. Shaped by history, education, and access to support, it influences how individuals experience opportunity and belonging. Yet within a system built on sectarian division, people continue to connect across communities, showing that identity can separate people but also bring them together.

Backstory

Divided by Design: Navigating Identity in Post-war Lebanon

What does it mean to be Lebanese? If you asked 10 people, you would get 10 different answers, each shaped by a different community, a different experience of the same place, and yet, beneath all of it, an undeniable and profound shared love for the country itself.

Lebanon is one of the Middle East’s most religiously diverse countries, home to a wide range of communities, cultures, experiences, and traditions. Lebanon consists of 18 religious communities or sects, which form the basis of its sectarian power-sharing political system, and while this diversity is part of what gives the country its richness, it also happens to shape everyday life in complicated ways. With so many identities existing side by side, belonging often feels layered or inherited and, at times, confusing. Rather than a simple collection of personal characteristics and experiences, identity in Lebanon sometimes feels more like something people are constantly trying to navigate.

The complicated nature is not new. In fact, Lebanon’s multi-sect power-sharing system is rooted in Lebanon’s history and geographic evolution. Under Ottoman rule, sectarian coexistence was already a governing principle in the region. As the expansion from Mount Lebanon grew into a larger, more diverse state, more religious communities became incorporated, and when France took control under the League of Nations Mandate in 1920, it formalised and expanded this system, favouring the Maronite Christian community with whom it had historical ties.

When Lebanon gained independence in 1943, leaders inherited this framework and cemented it through the National Pact (United Nations, 2008). In practice, this means that Lebanon’s highest offices are allocated by sect. The president a Maronite Christian, the prime minister a Sunni Muslim, and the speaker of parliament a Shiite Muslim (Britannica, n.d.). These systems were later reinforced by the Ta’if agreement of 1989 that ended the Lebanese Civil War, which maintained these categories but shifted the balance of power, reducing presidential authority and increasing that of the cabinet, rather than dismantling the sectarian dynamic (United Nations, 2008).

While this system was originally created to manage coexistence and prevent conflict, it also tied political stance to sectarian identity. This catalysed the idea that loyalty is first owed to the community rather than to the state. Over time, this dynamic made it hard to build a single unified sense of identity, leaving sectarian divisions within the system itself. This system created a fragile and volatile environment that struggled to adapt to internal and external pressures, contributing to the Lebanese civil war, which formally ended in 1990 but whose effects remain present in everyday life. These questions of identity did not merely fade into the background, but they continued to be shaped by the systems that organise society.

My interest in this topic stems from my own experience navigating identity. Having grown up in a family made up of 5 different sectarian backgrounds, I witnessed firsthand how the sense of “belonging” was not always fixed. While at times it raised questions about where I may or may not belong, it also revealed something else: that identity can create connections across the communities, not just division. I believe it is this tension between separation and connection that makes the reality of post-war Lebanon deeply complicated, yet deeply human; a reality that many people in Lebanon continue to navigate. This experience of navigating identity is not unique to Lebanon. For many young people around the world today, identity rarely presents itself as a single, clear answer. It is something negotiated, questioned, and, in some cases, contradicted by the systems around them.

The Lebanese civil war itself left deep and long-lasting scars that are continuously shaping how identity is experienced and navigated today. Over 15 years of civil conflict, state institutions collapsed, and militias began to take control over different regions. For some, violence became part of daily life. Entire communities were displaced and persecuted, and many events of aggression left collective trauma that was never fully addressed (Sune, 2011).

The war was not a single conflict but a collection of shifting alliances and interventions. Consequently, there is no single “correct” narrative or recollection. In practice, decades later, there is still no shared understanding of what really happened, as different communities often hold on to their own interpretations of the past (LCPS, 2025).

These divisions are not only remembered but also reproduced within societies. In education, for example, there is not one fully unified history curriculum that addresses the Civil War in a consistent way. Schools often adopt narratives aligned with their community’s experience of the war, while some schools avoid it altogether, leaving profound gaps in collective memory (Maktabi, 2012).

Students ultimately grow up learning about their country’s history not from a national perspective but through the perspectives of their communities, reinforcing the idea that identity belongs to separate groups rather than a whole nation (Salloukh et al., 2015).

The gap between personal narrative and shared history is also something many young people around the world may resonate with. It is not uncommon to feel that what you are being taught depends heavily on who is teaching and what they need you to believe. In the United Kingdom and the United States, debates regarding how colonialism and racial injustice are taught at schools reflect a similar tension: whose version of history gets told, and whose does not? In Lebanon, however, this is not a political debate happening within a curriculum. It is rooted in the system itself. An entire generation grows up without a common story of their own country to stand on.

The impact of these systems is also prevalent in everyday survival. In parts of Lebanon, particularly in the south, access to basic services such as healthcare and education is not always consistently available from the state. As a result, people often rely on non-state organisations to meet their needs. In certain areas, groups such as Hezbollah have stepped in to fill these gaps, providing welfare services and infrastructure support (Khatib, 2021). For many families, this support is not a matter of political alignment nor a political choice that was made. It is simply a means for survival.

Simultaneously, this dynamic fosters a system where access to essential services becomes closely tied to communal belonging. The idea that where you come from determines what you can access is not specific to Lebanon; however, in this case, it operates at a level that shapes not just opportunity but survival. While these networks do provide support in times of instability, they can also deepen divisions by reinforcing reliance on certain groups. It is in this way that identity becomes linked not only to culture or belief, but to survival itself. The result is a reality where belonging to certain communities or groups determines access to necessary resources.

While these divisions are usually not formally enforced, they are generally understood. They shape where people live and feel safe, what opportunities are available to them, where they build relationships, and more. Yet at the same time, these boundaries are not absolute. Connections across communities continue to exist, figuring out identity in ways that challenge the systems around them. This is often visible in personal relationships where people form connections that may not fit within the sectarian boundaries.

While generally rare in the region, Lebanon in spite of sectarian fragmentation, is frequently cited for its high rate of interfaith/inter-sectarian marriages, reflecting the nation’s deeply interconnected social structure (Deeb, 2020).

This is particularly striking considering Lebanon’s lack of civil marriage structure. Marriages must be conducted through a religious authority meaning couples technically must marry within a shared religious identity or travel abroad to do so. This ultimately gives religious leaders significant influence over personal life, reinforcing ties between legal status, faith, and identity.

However, the persistence of interfaith relationships despite these limitations prove that identity is not always confined to rigid categories that the system imposes.

Additionally, while boundaries are powerful, they were never total, and this is seen in spaces such as central Beirut, home to the American University of Beirut, a private, independent, non-sectarian institution of higher learning founded in 1866. Such institutions historically drew students and communities from across sectarian lines and created common grounds in an otherwise divided landscape (American University of Beirut, 2020).

For people living between communities, identity rarely feels fixed. It shifts depending on contexts, where you are, who you are with, and what’s being asked of you. While for some this can create uncertainty, it also allows for a broader sense of connection that challenges the idea that belonging must belong to a single group.

Addressing challenges of identity in post-war Lebanon is not simply a matter of reforming institutions. It also requires us to rethink how identity is understood within the Lebanese society. For example, efforts to introduce a unified history curriculum, or strengthen public service could create conditions where identity is less tied to division and more so to shared experience. This is evident in institutions such as the Lebanese Army, Red Cross, and other non-sectarian entities. However, one must remember that these changes exist within a system battling economic pressure and unresolved tensions, and any shift towards a more inclusive sense of belonging would eventually need to balance these realities.

Ultimately, Lebanon’s post-war reality cannot be reduced to a single story of division or unity. The systems that structure identity continue to reinforce separation from how people access services to what children learn at school. Yet within these systems, people in Lebanon continue to form relationships and cross boundaries that do not always follow the lines drawn for them. Understanding identity in Lebanon today is not merely about recognising its divisions, but about exploring how people live within and beyond them.

Reference list

American University of Beirut (2020). The University. [online] Available at: https://www.aub.edu.lb/Registrar/Documents/catalogue/graduate20-21/university.pdf [Accessed 22 Apr. 2026].

Deeb, L. (2020). Beyond sectarianism: Intermarriage and social difference in Lebanon. International Journal of Middle East Studies, 52(2), pp.215–228. doi:https://doi.org/10.1017/s0020743819000898.

Encyclopedia Britannica. (n.d.). Lebanon - Lebanon after independence. [online] Available at: https://www.britannica.com/place/Lebanon/Lebanon-after-independence.

Khatib, L. (2021). How Hezbollah holds sway over the Lebanese state. [online] Chatham House – International Affairs Think Tank. Available at: https://www.chathamhouse.org/2021/06/how-hezbollah-holds-sway-over-lebanese-state.

LCPS (2025). Fifty Years After the Lebanese Civil War: Does Knowing Still Matter? [online] LCPS. Available at: https://www.lcps-lebanon.org/en/articles/details/4927/fifty-years-since-the-outbreak-of-the-lebanese-civil-war-does-knowing-still-matter.

Maktabi, R. (2012). Lebanon’s missing history: Why school books ignore the past. [online] CNN. Available at: https://edition.cnn.com/2012/06/08/world/meast/lebanon-civil-war-history.

Salloukh, B.F., Barakat, R., Al-Habbal, J.S., Khattab, L.W. and Mikaelian, S. (2015). The Politics of Sectarianism in Postwar Lebanon. doi:https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctt183p3d5.

Sune, H. (2011). The Historiography and the Memory of the Lebanese Civil War | Sciences Po Violence De Masse Et Résistance - Réseau De Recherche. [online] SciencesPo. Available at: https://www.sciencespo.fr/mass-violence-war-massacre-resistance/fr/document/historiography-and-memory-lebanese-civil-war.html.

United Nations (2008). The Taif Agreement. [online] Available at: https://www.un.int/lebanon/sites/www.un.int/files/Lebanon/the_taif_agreement_english_version_.pdf.

Van Esveld, B. (2023). Lebanon Rejects Civil Marriages, Puts Children at Risk. [online] Human Rights Watch. Available at: https://www.hrw.org/news/2023/02/07/lebanon-rejects-civil-marriages-puts-children-risk.

In this episode Aiya discusses the Lebanese expereince of rebuolding its identity within a system of secretrain division. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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Twenty years after the invasion, Iraq’s state remains a formal shell while actual trust resides in informal networks: family, tribe, and clergy. The muhasasa system solidified sectarianism, hollowing out public institutions. Yet, the Tishreen protests reveal a new generation demanding a state that recognizes them as citizens, not categories.

Backstory

Iraq 20 Years On: Where Trust Goes When the State Fails

In a tea house in Baghdad’s Karrada district, a civil servant in his fifties rolls a cigarette and shrugs when asked whether he trusts his government. The question, he says, is the wrong one. It isn’t that he ‘distrusts’ the state, a distrust would imply he once expected something of it. He expects things of his cousin, his neighbourhood, his sheikh, and, quietly, of the marjaʿiyya (the senior shia cleric establishment) in Najaf. The state is something that happens to him.

Consider how that shapes a life. When seeking a job, you call a relative; when feeling unsafe, you call a neighbour; for paperwork, you pay a fixer. You don’t know whether the electricity will be on tonight or whether the checkpoint on your street answers to the government or to the militia.

More than twenty years after the US-led invasion, which was meant to give Iraqis a state they could finally believe in, it is tempting to read that weary shrug as the bruise of a single catastrophic war. But the longer you sit in Iraq, the clearer it becomes that the post-2003 collapse of public trust is less a wound than the exposure of an older scar, one that asks uncomfortable questions about whether the Iraqi state has ever, in any serious sense, been socially legitimate in the eyes of the people it claims to govern.

The state that wasn’t built to be trusted

Iraq as a political unit was assembled in 1920 out of three Ottoman provinces — Basra, Baghdad and Mosul — by British officials whose primary concern was not social cohesion, but rather imperial strategy. this founding moment, described as a “nation-building” project that denied its own history: a centralised state was imposed on a population whose actual social worlds ran through tribe, sect, city quarter, and religious authority. (Dodge,2003)

Think about what that means day-to-day. Your grandfather’s village had a sheikh who settled disputes. Your mother’s neighbourhood had a cleric who knew every family. Then an unfamiliar clerk insists those ties do not count and your marriage, land and sons schooling mustb be registered in a ledger. You nof and go back to calling the sheikh.

The Hashemite monarchy, the series of coups that followed, and eventually the Ba’ath Party each inherited that basic problem. Saddam Hussein’s regime is often remembered as ferociously coercive, but coercion is what a state reaches for when it cannot rely on legitimacy. Where the Ba’ath could not command belief, it commanded obedience. The social contract was not trust but fear. Underneath the fear, Iraqis continued to turn to family, tribe, mosque and bazaar for security, welfare and dispute resolution.

This matters for the story of 2003, because the Americans who arrived in Baghdad believed they were liberating a people from a dictator. They were, in fact, removing the fear that had been doing the work of legitimacy.

The moment the lid came off

In the spring of 2003, a young soldier in the Iraqi army woke up to learn he no longer had a job. The stroke of an American pen had dissolved his army. Down the street, a primary school teacher who had joined the Ba’ath Party in 1984 because that was the only way to teach primary school was told she could not return to her classroom. Overnight, two working adults had their identities rewritten from soldier and teacher into something smaller- ex-regime, suspect.

These were the Coalition Provisional Authority’s two founding decisions — dissolving the Iraqi army and expelling Ba’ath Party members from public life, and scholars agree they were catastrophic (Dodge, 2012). Hundreds of thousands of armed men returned home without salaries and experienced civil servants were purged, hollowing out state capacity. What the CPA could not see was that it was not simply removing a regime, it was dismantling the thin scaffolding on which a very fragile public order rested.

In its place came the muhasasa ta’ifiyya — the sectarian apportionment system that divided ministries among Shia, Sunni and Kurdish elites according to quotas. (Dodge, 2018) In practice, this meant that getting a job at the Ministry of Oil depended less on your qualifications than on which party held the ministry that year, and whether your cousin knew someone in it. It meant that rebuilding a hospital in Basra depended on which faction’s budget line it fell under. It meant that when a young Iraqi applied for a government role, the first relevant question was not “what credentials do you have?” but “who are your people?”.

The political scientist Fanar Haddad (2011) pointed out that before 2003, Iraqi political discourse barely used the language of sect at all. The muhasasa did not simply acknowledge sectarian difference; it made sect the primary currency of political life. The post-2003 state was not designed to earn legitimacy from Iraqis as citizens. It was designed to distribute resources among elites who claimed to represent them as Sunnis, Shia or Kurds. The citizen — the figure to whom a modern state is supposed to be accountable — was structurally absent from this deal.

Where trust went

If trust could not settle in the state, it had to settle somewhere. The last twenty years are, in many ways, the story of where.

Some of it went to the marjaʿiyya — the senior Shia clerical establishment based in Najaf, and particularly to Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani. When the CPA initially proposed writing Iraq’s constitution without direct elections, it was a fatwa (a legal opinion or ruling by a senior cleric) from Sistani, not a lawsuit or a parliamentary revolt, that forced a reversal. (Chandrasekaran, 2003). The political scientist Patel (2022) argues that Iraqis turned to the mosque in part because the mosque offered something the state did not: a legitimate institution with clear leadership, rooted in a social world they recognised as their own. When your electricity cuts out for the ninth time that week, and your MP is unreachable, and a Friday sermon in Najaf tells you the government must do better, it is the sermon you remember. The mosque became the group chat, the union, the local councillor, the trusted news source all folded into one.

Some of it went to the militias. The Popular Mobilisation Forces (al-Hashd al-Shaabi) were formed in 2014 to fight ISIS after the Iraqi army collapsed at Mosul — a collapse that was itself the clearest possible verdict on the state’s ability to command loyalty from its own soldiers. (Mansour and Jabar, 2017). The Hashd won that war. For many Iraqis in Shia-majority areas, the militia that fought ISIS in their name is a more tangible protector than the Ministry of Interior will ever be. It has a face, and it picks up the phone.

And some of it — perhaps most of it — went nowhere. It dissolved into the everyday conviction that the political class is a closed extractive club, that jobs come through wasta (connections) rather than merit, and that the state’s main function is to siphon oil revenue into the pockets of the people already running it.

Tishreen: the generation that wanted a state

This is why the Tishreen protests of October 2019 matter so much, and why they are so easily misread from the outside.

Tishreen was not a sectarian movement. It was largely Shia in its geography, Baghdad and the southern provinces, but its demands were the opposite of sectarian. Young Iraqis poured into Tahrir Square demanding jobs, services, an end to corruption, and the dismantling of the *muhasasa* system itself. (EPIC, 2021)

Many of the protesters were part of a generation that had grown up entirely after 2003. They demanded — jobs, dignity, a future. They had wanted to study engineering, open cafes, make films, move abroad and come back: a quiet list of ambitions any 20 year old carries demands not so different from those of young people elsewhere. What is different is the system they are making those demands of.

A graduate in Manchester who cannot find work blames the economy, or their degree, or the government of the day, and votes. A graduate in Basra who cannot find work knows that the job exists, that it has been promised to someone’s nephew, and that voting will not change it. The grievance is recognisable. The wall it meets is not.

What the Tishreenis were asking for, in the end, was something Iraqis have rarely had the chance to ask for: a state that relates to them as citizens rather than as members of a sect. They were asking for the legal-institutional relationship that had never actually existed.

The response was telling. Around 600 to 800 protesters were killed and tens of thousands injured, with state security forces and militia-linked paramilitaries both implicated. (International Crisis Group, 2021). Four years on, Amnesty International (2023) reported that virtually none of those responsible had been held to account. The protesters had made, for a moment, the most Iraqi demand imaginable, to be a state, and the answer came back in live ammunition.

Twenty years on

Ask a displaced Iraqi family in Jordan, or a Kurdish teenager in Erbil, or a Baghdadi student whose cousin was killed in Tahrir Square, what their relationship to the Iraqi state is, and you will very rarely hear the vocabulary of rights, laws and obligations that political theory tells us should anchor modern citizenship. You will hear the vocabulary of kinship, faith, neighbourhood, and survival. That is not evidence of some innate Iraqi incapacity for statehood. It is evidence of a century-long pattern in which the formal state has consistently failed to make itself legible to, or answerable to, the people living inside its borders.

The uncomfortable conclusion is that the post-2003 collapse of public trust in the Iraqi state is not a deviation from a healthier past. It is the continuation, under new management, of a relationship that has always been thinner than the map suggested.

The wants of these young Iraqis are not exotic. They want to feel safe, to be understood, not flattened into a sect. They should be entitled to a say in their future, and their names should mean more than the box it sits in on a government form. This list is the same list anyone reading carries around. The difference is what it costs to want it.

The people who shrug in Karrada tea houses are not cynics. They are waiting, with the patience of people who have waited before — waiting for a system that recognises them not as categories, but as citizens.

Bibliography

Amnesty International. “Iraq: Four Years After Tishreen Protests, No Justice for State and Militia Violence.” 28 September 2023. https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2023/09/iraq-four-years-after-tishreen-protests-no-justice-for-state-and-militia-violence/.

Chandrasekaran, Rajiv. “How Cleric Trumped U.S. Plan for Iraq.” *Washington Post*, 26 November 2003. https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/2003/11/26/how-cleric-trumped-us-plan-for-iraq/e82c7c68-ff47-4201-8f2c-26ec4a6999e7/.

Dodge, Toby. *Inventing Iraq: The Failure of Nation Building and a History Denied*. New York: Columbia University Press, 2003.

Dodge, Toby. *Iraq: From War to a New Authoritarianism*. London: International Institute for Strategic Studies / Routledge, 2012.

Dodge, Toby. “Tracing the Rise of Sectarianism in Iraq after 2003.” LSE Middle East Centre Blog, 13 September 2018. https://blogs.lse.ac.uk/mec/2018/09/13/tracing-the-rise-of-sectarianism-in-iraq-after-2003/.

Enabling Peace in Iraq Center. *The Long Game: Iraq’s “Tishreen” Movement and the Struggle for Reform*. Washington, DC: EPIC, 2021. https://enablingpeace.org/tishreen/.

Haddad, Fanar. *Sectarianism in Iraq: Antagonistic Visions of Unity*. London: Hurst & Co., 2011.

International Crisis Group. *Iraq’s Tishreen Uprising: From Barricades to Ballot Box*. Middle East Report No. 223. Brussels: International Crisis Group, 26 July 2021. https://www.crisisgroup.org/middle-east-north-africa/gulf-and-arabian-peninsula/iraq/223-iraqs-tishreen-uprising-barricades-ballot-box.

Mansour, Renad, and Faleh A. Jabar. *The Popular Mobilization Forces and Iraq’s Future*. Carnegie Middle East Center. Beirut: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 28 April 2017. https://carnegieendowment.org/research/2017/04/the-popular-mobilization-forces-and-iraqs-future.

Patel, David Siddhartha. *Order Out of Chaos: Islam, Information, and the Rise and Fall of Social Orders in Iraq*. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2022.

In this episode Mace discusses the Iraqi expereince of rebuolding their country 20 years on. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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Sierra Leone’s civil war has left generations of child soldiers struggling to reclaim their childhoods. The country grapples with different issues in its attempt, notably a lack of equipment and economic ability to truly support its traumatised children. Can a classroom truly heal what war has broken, and what lies ahead for Sierra Leone's children?

Backstory

Sierra Leone: When the Classroom Becomes the Road Back

Mohamed Sidibay was five years old when a militia attacked his village, killed his family, and forced him to become a soldier for the Revolutionary United Front. He spent the next five years moving with his regiment. Sidibay was a child with a gun and nowhere to call home. When the war ended and his freedom was secured, life was all but bliss. What was waiting for him after 5 years of war as a child was a pure void: “I didn’t have a home. I didn’t have food, and I didn’t have a family” (UNICEF USA, 2024). What he did have, eventually, was a school. Today, he is studying law at Fordham University in New York. His goal for the future is to return to Sierra Leone and help build the judicial system his country never had. His story is certainly not typical. But it does however give us insight into the possibilities education can offer for a generation of children who lost everything to a war they never chose to fight and were obligated to witness unfold.

Sierra Leone endured one of the most brutal civil conflicts in modern African history. Between 1991 and 2002, an estimated 15,000 to 22,000 children of all ages were taken from their families and forced to serve in different military groups (Betancourt et al., 2008). These young children were taken as fighters, as domestic labourers, as sexual slaves. The RUF took away their childhood and cut them off from their families and communities. This in turn led to these young victims to commit atrocities against innocent loved ones. This was notably true as a strategy of indoctrination with the goal of making these children unable to escape and unable to return anywhere (Betancourt et al., 2010). The war ended in 2002. However, for those children, the war is still on-going. The return to society is one that is a constant battle and negotiation.

Education is placed as a main topic at the negotiation table. Community members in post-war Sierra Leone understood this instinctively. One adolescent in Kono put it: “We were accepted because we were sent to school” (Betancourt et al., 2008). The reason for that was that education symbolically signaled that the child has decided to choose a different route; a route for the future of Sierra Leone itself. It offered routine where there had been chaos, relationships where there had been isolation, and a sense of forward movement where trauma had created stagnation.

However, the assumption that school enrollment would straightforwardly heal what the war had broken turned out to be far more complicated. Sierra Leone’s secondary schools serve a cohort of youth whose lives were deeply affected by the war, yet very few offer teacher salaries that attract quality teaching, let alone the time, training, or staff to provide psychosocial support for traumatised children (Betancourt et al., 2010). Classrooms designed for ordinary children were asked to absorb children with PTSD, depression, and histories of violence without any structural adaptation. The result was that the protective power of education was consistently weaker than hoped. As one researcher put it: “If you go through a war, you’re traumatised, and three months is not enough to help you as much as you need as a young person. If you were drugged the whole time, literally drugged the whole time, and forced to do terrible atrocities; there’s a lot to work through” (Elkhaili & Sempijja, 2025). Three months was roughly the duration of many early reintegration programmes.

The situation was particularly acute for girls. Female former child soldiers were systematically underrepresented in the official Disarmament, Demobilisation, and Reintegration process. Partly because many had been taken as so-called “bush wives” rather than as fighters and were as such not formally classified as combatants (Wikipedia, 2025). Girls who returned were often seen as impure and cast away, which led to them facing lives of shame and social exclusion (Betancourt et al., 2010). The same school which should have offered rehabilitation instead excluded those who needed rehabilitation the most. This was exacerbated through the policy that banned pregnant girls from attending class, on the grounds that their presence would humiliate them or encourage pregnancy in others (Broken Chalk, n.d.). Sierra Leone’s education ministry upheld this ban for years, effectively penalising girls twice: first for what was done to them during the war, then for its biological consequences. They blamed the victim for being one.

Two decades later, the education system still bears the weight of what conflict broke. The sector continues to face resource shortages which leads to inadequate teacher training and high dropout rates (ST Foundation, 2025). The war’s long shadow is also rendered more noticeable due to the crises that followed it; notably the Ebola epidemic of 2014 to 2016 that closed schools for months, which in turn traumatised a new generation of children and further disrupted a system still rebuilding from conflict (ST Foundation, 2025). To add on to this, the barriers that prevent children from completing their education are not only institutional. In fact, adolescent pregnancy and child marriage rates in Sierra Leone are among the highest globally, resulting in an estimated 20% of girls dropping out of school (Girls’ Education Challenge, n.d.). Around 87% of Sierra Leonean children choose to work rather than attend school, stating they would “rather work and get paid than sit in school and be hungry” (Broken Chalk, n.d.). Poverty and hunger, not apathy, are driving the dropout rate.

There are reasons to hold onto hope. The government’s Free Quality School Education programme has driven meaningful increases in enrolment. When the National Policy on Radical Inclusion in Schools was announced, enrolments rose by 33.9% within a single year (Corus International, 2024). Local chiefs in some districts have begun imposing fines on families who keep girls out of school and are tackling child marriage as a barrier to completion (ChildFund International, 2025). And the story of Mohamed Sidibay, as exceptional as it may be, demonstrates what becomes possible when a child is given the chance to pursue an education on their own terms, at their own pace, without shame (UNICEF USA, 2024).

But the gap between enrolment and completion, or the gap between what is access and what is really recovery, remains wide. What Sierra Leone’s experience teaches is that education alone cannot carry the burden of reintegration. In fact, it should be carved into a wider scale. Communities should be willing to accept returning children and encourage them. Teachers should be trained to be able to hold trauma. And systems should be built around the children so as to not punish them for what they could not control. As Sidibay himself said: “No child should ever have to rely on chance to receive an education” (UNICEF USA, 2024).

That is the standard Sierra Leone is still working toward. The classroom is still one of the best remedies for what the war might have caused, even more so 20 years later. The question at hand is whether the classroom in question is good enough and designed properly enough to be a real remedy.

Reference List

Betancourt, T.S., Simmons, S., Borisova, I., Brewer, S.E., Iweala, U., and de la Soudière, M. (2008). “High Hopes, Grim Reality: Reintegration and the Education of Former Child Soldiers in Sierra Leone.” Comparative Education Review, 52(4), 565–587. https://dash.harvard.edu/entities/publication/73120378-e974-6bd4-e053-0100007fdf3b

Betancourt, T.S. et al. (2010). “Sierra Leone’s Former Child Soldiers: A Follow-up Study of Psychosocial Adjustment and Community Reintegration.” Child Development, 81(4), 1077–1095. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC2921972/

Borgen Magazine (2024). “Children No Longer: Healing Child Soldiers in Sierra Leone.” https://www.borgenmagazine.com/children-no-longer-healing-child-soldiers-in-sierra-leone/

Broken Chalk (n.d.). “Educational Challenges in Sierra Leone.” https://brokenchalk.org/educational-challenges-in-sierra-leone/

ChildFund International (2025). “Defying Stereotypes: Male Leaders Champion Girls’ Education in Sierra Leone.” https://www.childfund.org/stories-and-news/2025/october-2025/defying-stereotypes-male-leaders-champion-girls-education-in-sierra-leone/

Corus International (2024). “Tech for Development: Sierra Leone’s Path to Educational Excellence.” https://corusinternational.org/blog/2024/tech-development-sierra-leones-path-educational-excellence

Elkhaili, S. and Sempijja, N. (2025). “The Role of Education in Reintegrating Ex-Child Soldiers: The Case of Sierra Leone.” Cogent Education, 12(1). https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/2331186X.2025.2466307

Girls’ Education Challenge (n.d.). “Sierra Leone.” https://girlseducationchallenge.org/countries/country/sierra-leone

ICRC — IHL in Action (n.d.). “Demobilizing Children from Armed Forces and Armed Groups in Sierra Leone: 2001–2002.” https://ihl-in-action.icrc.org/case-study/sierra-leone-demobilization-child-soldiers

Night Watch Newspaper (n.d.). “No Free Quality Education in Sierra Leone.” https://nightwatchnewspaper.com/no-free-quality-education-in-sierra-leone/

ST Foundation (2025). “Sierra Leone.” https://www.stfoundation.org/sierra-leone/

UNICEF USA (2024). “A Former Child Soldier Tells How UNICEF Aided His Transition to Peace.” https://www.unicefusa.org/stories/former-child-soldier-tells-how-unicef-aided-his-transition-peace

Wikipedia (2025). “Child Soldiers in Sierra Leone.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Child_soldiers_in_Sierra_Leone

In this episode Nicolas discusses life for child soliders in Sierra Leone after the civil war is over. He is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

In a village in eastern Rwanda, thirty women sit in a circle turning banana leaves into beach bags. Some of them are genocide widows. Others are married to the men who killed those widows' families. Their cooperative is called Twiyubake, meaning "to rebuild ourselves" and it has been running for more than fifteen years. What it reveals is quieter, and stranger, than the usual story of Rwandan recovery.

Backstory

Weaving a country together: Rwanda and Twiyubake

If you have heard anything about Rwanda, it is probably one of two things. Either the 1994 genocide, an event that lasted a hundred days and left roughly 800,000 dead, with such extreme violence it is known globally and still remembered today. Or, maybe you heard the other story, the comeback: the gleaming Kigali skyline, the drone deliveries, the “African Singapore” headlines, the tech-hub marketing. Both stories are true. Neither of them tells you what it feels like to share a table with your enemy’s wife every morning for fifteen years, and slowly stop thinking of her that way.

That is what Twiyubake is. The underlying social stitches that continue to help Rwandan society come together.

What the cooperative actually does

Twiyubake is located in Kayonza, in Rwanda’s Eastern Province. It is a banana-leaf-weaving cooperative of around thirty women, partnered since 2008 with the fair-trade nonprofit Indego Africa. The women harvest banana leaves, often picking them by hand from local plantations, dry them in the sun until they take on shades of brown and black and bone-white, sometimes dye them indigo or pink, and then weave them into baskets, stacking boxes, summer beach bags and simple decorative jewellery. The products are then sold internationally, appearing throughout internet marketplaces like Saks.com and in collaborations with European designers.

The members first met in 2007 through Prison Fellowship Rwanda, an organisation that works on reconciliation. The Kinyarwanda word Twiyubake translates as “to rebuild ourselves.” Indego Africa’s co-founders describe the group plainly: female genocide survivors and widows working side-by-side with the wives of imprisoned génocidaires; Those men convicted of carrying out the 1994 killings.

Now, the first thought of many when hearing “post-conflict reconciliation” is to think of an UN panel, speeches, legalese, and, in general, the careful art of speaking a lot but saying very little that it seems so many public figures have mastered. But Twiyubake is special, and it is worth our collective attention. So, let us do a brief exercise to try to grasp just how unique and how much of an achievement the cooperative is.

Imagine something bad, irreversibly so, happened to someone you deeply care about. Now imagine the person responsible is in prison, and their spouse, the same one who made their dinner, raised their kids, shared their bed, lives in your village. You pass each other on the path to the market. Her children went to school with yours before everything happened. You are both poor. You are both trying to feed your family, and thrive in what you come. And someone from a nonprofit comes and says: we have a plan where the two of you sit next to each other every day and weave baskets. Not as a short term thing to take some pictures, get paid, and leave. But as a job.

That is the ask. And the remarkable thing is that many women said yes, and are still saying yes more than fifteen years later, because the alternative –subsistence farming on land that barely feeds anyone, the nearest wage-earning work hours away– was worse than the daily proximity of someone they had every reason to hate.

Now, the easy version of this story is just this. Forgiveness. A warm, tidy narrative where trauma melts into friendship and everyone ends up working together towards a brighter future. This, however, is not what the women themselves describe.

When Belancilla Kangondo, one of Twiyubake’s artisans, was interviewed about her life before the cooperative, she did not talk about forgiveness first. She talked about money. Before she joined, she was farming for the equivalent of around 43 cents a day while her husband was imprisoned for genocide-related activity. What Indego Africa and the cooperative gave her, she said, was the ability to renovate her house, get electricity instead of kerosene lamps, build a second house to rent out, eat regularly and save at a bank.

It is not hard to imagine many who just wanted her to say reconciliation. But Belancilla is saying something more honest and important: Only when safety and survival were in place did the harder work of living alongside former enemies become something you could carry.

This is a part I think we, as Gen Z audiences, understand better than most others. We are less afraid than ever to talk about mental health, about “capacity,” and not being able to process anything when we are burnt out and broke. It is easier for us to see, in our bones, that you cannot grieve or forgive or grow on an empty stomach and an unpaid rent bill. Here, Twiyubake is that insight made literal. The weaving doesn’t just happen to be a metaphor for the sticking together of a new society; Instead, it provides the income that makes reconciliation possible.

Beyond macroeconomic numbers

On paper, Rwanda’s official recovery is astonishing. GDP grew by 8.9 percent in 2024. Around 1.5 million Rwandans have been lifted out of poverty between 2017 and 2024. Life expectancy has more than doubled since the genocide. The government talks about reaching middle-income status by 2035.

But if you travel past the capital Kigali, the picture changes. The vast majority of people living below the poverty line live in rural areas, where poverty affects nearly one in three people, or almost twice the urban rate. Most of the new jobs the economy has created are informal, low-paid, and lack stability or social security, especially for youth and rural workers. Women in rural Rwanda earn significantly less than men and are also less likely to hold formal-sector work.

Kayonza, where Twiyubake is based, is rural and the people there are not riding the Kigali boom. After the genocide, Rwanda’s population was 70% female, but most of these women lacked any formal education or knowledge of large scale businesses or export markets, which is why organisations like Indego Africa are such an important part of the ecosystem, because beyond reconciliation, Twiyubake is also about inequality, poverty, and how to try to even out the increasingly large differences between rural and urban environments. No statistic, regardless of how much you squint at it, will tell you these stories of the cooperatives.

If you take anything away from this article, please make it be that these are people who come together because they have the same needs, even though they live in very different realities. The women of Twiyubake want what most of us want: a stable income, a sense of dignity, to be more than the worst thing that happened to them, to have some say in what their lives look like next. The circumstances are hard to fully empathise with for most, but their needs are not.

If you watch some of the interviews with the cooperative’s members (Which I very much recommend!) there is a moment when you notice something shift. When explaining why they joined, most women quickly stop talking about survival and start talking about their children’s futures. Marie Josee Numukobwa, the cooperative’s treasurer, has six children and has passed through leadership programmes including Goldman Sachs’ 10,000 Women initiative. Jacqueline Musabimana, the president, has started mentoring younger women who come in through Indego Africa’s vocational training, helping respond to Rwanda’s 63 percent youth underemployment rate by handing skills down a generation.

That shift, from “I need to survive today” to “I am building something my children will inherit” is what true, durable recovery looks like from the inside. It isn’t reached through big policy announcements. It is reached through a 43-year-old woman teaching a 20-year-old how to braid a banana leaf into a handle, in a workshop named after the word for rebuilding ourselves, in a country that still, thirty-one years on, is figuring out what that means.

Twiyubake will not fix Rwanda. But, it was never trying to. What it does is smaller and, I think, more effective: it gets people to look beyond immediacy, it gives them a chance to grow and, in the process, creates a sustainable cycle where, at the end of the day, you are sitting next to someone you never planned to sit next to, and picking up another leaf, and getting on with the day. Maybe, that is all enough.

Bibliography:

Brunner, Jeryl. 2015. “Three Women Who Survived Rwanda’s Genocide Share Their Stories of Hope and Transformation.” Parade, April 7, 2015. https://parade.com/387901/jerylbrunner/three-women-who-survived-rwandas-genocide-share-their-stories-of-hope-and-transformation/.

Co-operative News. 2016. “Women-Led Co-ops in Rwanda Help to Rebuild the Country.” Co-operative News, June 6, 2016. https://www.thenews.coop/106036/topic/democracy/women-led-co-ops-rwanda-help-rebuild-country/.

Indego Africa. 2015. “#MakersMonth: The Beauty of Banana Leaf.” Indego Africa Blog, July 8, 2015. https://indegoafrica.org/blogs/blog/makersmonth-the-beauty-of-banana-leaf.

Indego Africa. 2016. “Youth Empowerment: Banana Leaf Weaving.” Indego Africa Blog, May 26, 2016. https://indegoafrica.org/blogs/blog/bananas-for-banana-leaf-empowering-youth-through-banana-leaf-weaving.

In this episode Nicolas discusses life for child soliders in Sierra Leone after the civil war is over. He is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Ciao Trailblazers,

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

- Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

Just over 10 years ago, this was us. At the UNICEF FinTech Jam for Good back in 2016, we took this path less traveled. We knew there would be obstacles. We knew there would be hardship. Despite all of this, over the decade we have managed to support humanity across 5 continents, generating a 7-fold impact.

In Uganda, we support communities living on below $5 a day recovering from crisis through microfinance—which we co-created uniquely for their needs. We funded 3 micro-businesses bringing clean tech solutions to their local communities, such as replacing oil-based lamps with solar ones. This reduced the air pollution families had to experience in their homes. We also funded recyclable sanitary wear micro-businesses. This “for women, by women” micro-business supported the local community in accessing jobs and created a product made from local resources without creating much plastic waste.

In the Swat Valley, we co-designed supply chains with our local partners. Here, we supported 48 local artisans in gaining access to global supply chains, while also seeking to bring eco-friendliness back into the production process.

In Lebanon, we supported 8 GenZ Coders to access real-life projects to build their work experience, enabling them to enter the labor market and earn a decent living.

Across the UK and US, we supported GenZ youth in accessing vocational training so they could build their CVs and secure paid work. All 480+ GenZ individuals we supported came to us wanting to help communities recovering from conflict. They used the skills and expertise learned during their studies to make the impact they so wished to see.

Let’s not forget the innovation we created along the way. Our approach to human-centered design created bespoke solutions for each of the communities we worked with. Whether financial services, supply chains, citizen journalism training, or vibe coding programs, they all met the required compliance standards alongside the human needs of the users, customers, and other stakeholders.

We co-designed micro-games using Vibe Coding. We brought art to the general public using AI and NFTs. But most importantly, we highlighted the deep knowledge and expertise students have in their chosen domains. They used this deep expertise to shed light on the needs of communities recovering from conflict so their peer groups could relate to what is happening globally—from Northern Ireland to Vietnam, and from Colombia to Lebanon. They used podcasts, micro-games, infographics, and written articles to articulate their thoughts and narratives to the world. Many of these GenZ Vibers have gone on to work for news organizations like CNN and the Financial Times, as well as leading think tanks like RUSI and others.

Not to mention the recognition we picked up along the way—including 6 major awards:

• UNICEF FinTech Jam for Good – Infosys Challenge Winners

• Gold Standard Internship Host Award – Oxford University Careers Service (awarded for 3 consecutive years)

• Corporate Innovation and Excellence Award

• Virtual Internship – Innovator Award

Then there were the speaking opportunities where we shared our learnings. From FinTech Week London and Digital Impact Week London to the Marketplace Risk conferences, we supported the wider ecosystem by sharing our experience and knowledge in a way that helped others lower their trial-and-error rates.

All of this was made possible by our advisors and well-wishers, such as:

• Michael Moon, who helped us translate the 3-Box Solution into a workable and credible pathway to success. We survived COVID, the war in Ukraine, and other mishaps along the way because of his support.

• Jackie Abramian, who helped us turn students into Citizen Journalists and then GenZ Vibers.

• Gerry Creedon, who helped us design our embedded financial services and build internal financial systems.

• Pavel Khan, who kept us going over the last year or so when things were really tough.

• George Neris, with whom we co-created arts-based products and services.

• And many others who supported our approach to innovation to make the world an inclusive place and help the next generation take ownership of their own lives.

So, where do we go from here?

Victoria, our committed volunteer, will be posting the remainder of the Viber articles twice a week for the next two months or so. After that, this site will remain active as an archive for all who wish to read and enjoy the work posted here.

With gratitude and have a great autumn aheaad

Zufi, Michael, Jackie, Victoria & the Vibers.

Newsletter Summary Report

Here is a structured, AI-engine-friendly newsletter summary report along with a list of identified spelling and typographical corrections.

AI Summary & Extraction Report

Document Title / Header

10-Year Retrospective & Legacy Impact Report (2016–2026)

Core Message & Key Findings

• Milestone: Reflects on a 10-year journey origin-traced to the 2016 UNICEF FinTech Jam for Good.

• Global Impact Multiplier: Achieved a 7x impact ratio supporting communities across 5 continents.

• Transition Plan: The organization is concluding current editorial activity. Volunteer Victoria will post the remaining “Viber” articles twice weekly over the next two months, after which the Substack site will remain online as an active archive.

Key Initiatives & Regional Impact

1. Uganda:

   • Co-created tailored microfinance solutions for populations living on under $5/day.

   • Funded 3 micro-businesses focused on clean technology (replacing oil-based lamps with solar energy to reduce indoor air pollution).

   • Financed female-led micro-enterprises producing recyclable sanitary wear using local resources and minimizing plastic waste.

2. Swat Valley (Pakistan):

   • Co-designed local supply chains with regional partners.

   • Connected 48 local artisans to global markets while embedding eco-friendly production practices.

3. Lebanon:

   • Provided real-world project access to 8 GenZ coders to enhance employability and income potential.

4. UK & US (Global GenZ Empowerment):

   • Delivered vocational training to 480+ GenZ participants, enabling them to build CVs and secure paid work while applying their skills to support conflict-recovery communities.

Methodology & Strategic Innovation

• Applied Human-Centred Design (HCD) across diverse domains: custom financial services, supply chain architecture, citizen journalism, micro-games via vibe coding, and accessible public arts through AI and NFTs.

• Vibe Coding & Citizen Journalism Output: GenZ participants created micro-games, podcasts, infographics, and articles highlighting post-conflict communities (including Northern Ireland, Vietnam, Colombia, and Lebanon).

• Career Trajectories: Program alumni have gone on to work for top-tier news organizations (e.g., CNN, Financial Times) and global think tanks (e.g., RUSI).

• Balanced user and customer needs with strict regulatory and technical compliance.

Recognitions & Media Engagements

• 6 Industry Awards, including:

  • UNICEF FinTech Jam for Good – Infosys Challenge Winners

  • Gold Standard Internship Host Award (Oxford University Careers Service – 3-year recipient)

  • Corporate Innovation and Excellence Award

  • Virtual Internship – Innovator Award

• Key Speaker Engagements: FinTech Week London, Digital Impact Week (London), and Marketplace Risk conferences.

Key Advisors & Contributors

• Michael Moon: Provided framework guidance on Vijay Govindarajan’s 3-Box Solution, building strategic resilience through COVID-19 and geopolitical disruptions.

• Jackie Abramian: Mentored participants transitioning from students into Citizen Journalists and GenZ Vibers.

• Gerry Creedon: Assisted in embedding financial services and internal financial architectures.

• Pavel Khan: Offered operational support during critical challenges over the past year.

• George Neris: Co-created arts-based product lines and services.

• Victoria: Managing the upcoming bi-weekly content release schedule.

A4R 🎨 Vibers are just taking off with their careers.

Watch what they achieve.

Five hands. Different skin tones, locked together at a single point of contact. That’s the image. Underneath it, a dictionary-style definition: diversity — the range of human differences, including but not limited to race, ethnicity, gender, gender identity, sexual orientation, age, social class, physical ability, religious or ethical values, national origin, and political beliefs.

It’s a comprehensive definition. It’s also, on its own, a little flat. The real question isn’t what diversity means. It’s what it’s actually for.

There are three honest answers.

Three reasons. One that we lean on hardest.

The first is moral. Inclusion and equality are good in themselves — every person’s voice and dignity matter regardless of what including them produces. This is true, and it doesn’t require justification beyond itself.

The second is relational. People do better work, stay longer, and contribute more fully when they feel they belong rather than merely tolerated. This matters too, and it shows up throughout the rest of this series — in the work on identity, in the mirror image inspired by Tidawhitney Lek, in the question of who gets to bring their whole self into a room.

The third is functional. Diverse groups make better decisions because they don’t converge on the same blind spots. A room full of people who think alike, come from the same background, and have lived through the same experiences will agree quickly — and miss the same things, together, with total confidence. This is the mechanism behind black swan failures: not a lack of intelligence, but a lack of perspective diverse enough to see the thing coming before it arrived.

A4R holds all three. But the functional case is the one we actually operationalise, day to day, because it’s the one with a measurable track record.

The signal nobody else was positioned to hear.

Here’s the proof.

Before COVID, A4R’s mission — supporting communities recovering from conflict — was already resonating strongly with Gen Z Vibers. They cared about it, believed in it, and wanted to be part of it. But across a community of hundreds of young people from radically different backgrounds — different countries, different economic situations, different proximities to conflict and to comfort — a second signal kept surfacing alongside the first one. They loved the mission. And they also wanted to support their own friends and family, in their own local communities, who were struggling in ways that had nothing to do with conflict abroad.

A more homogeneous team — recruited from a narrower set of backgrounds, listening to a narrower set of voices — would very plausibly have missed this. Not because anyone would have dismissed it on purpose, but because monothought doesn’t notice what it isn’t built to hear. When everyone in the room shares roughly the same starting assumptions about what “impact” looks like, a second, quieter signal pointing somewhere else gets filtered out before it’s even registered as data.

A4R’s Vibers came from enough different places, carrying enough different lived realities, that this second signal didn’t get filtered out. It got heard. Repeatedly. Clearly enough that it became impossible to ignore.

Then COVID happened. Local economic precarity, youth unemployment, and the NEET crisis — young people not in employment, education, or training — became visible to everyone, almost overnight, as lockdowns exposed exactly how fragile local economies and local support networks already were. The organisations and businesses that responded well were, almost without exception, the ones that had already been paying attention to that signal before it became impossible to miss.

A4R was already there.

Two solutions, not one stretched thin.

This is the part worth being precise about, because it’s not just a comms story.

A4R didn’t take its existing post-conflict programme and quietly widen its eligibility criteria to include local Gen Z as well. That would have been the strip-down approach — take something built for one context and stretch it to cover another, hoping the fit is close enough. It usually isn’t.

Instead, A4R built two distinct, purpose-designed offerings. One remains focused on supporting communities recovering from conflict — the Swat Valley, Lebanon, Lira, and others — built around the specific human needs of displacement, statelessness, and post-conflict economic recovery covered throughout this series. The other is a separate solution addressing NEET and local economic precarity for Gen Z in the UK, US, and Australia — built around a different set of constraints entirely: different infrastructure, different cultural context, different starting points, but the same underlying conviction that creativity, vocational training, and genuine opportunity are the right response.

Two solutions, co-designed from the ground up for two different communities, because a sufficiently diverse group of young people told A4R, years in advance, that both needs were real and both deserved a real answer — not a single template applied twice.

Resilience that shows up before the crisis does.

This is what functional diversity actually buys an organisation. Not a single good decision. A pattern of catching things early, because the room contains enough different vantage points that very little gets to hide.

Human-centred design only works if you can actually hear the full range of humans you’re designing for. A4R’s 480+ Vibers, drawn from radically different countries, generations, and conflict histories, are not a diversity statistic to be reported in an annual review. They are the organisation’s early warning system, its market research, and its conscience, all operating at once, mostly without anyone needing to ask them to.

The moral case for diversity says this is the right thing to do. The belonging case says it makes people want to stay. The functional case says, more bluntly: a narrower team would have built one good programme, for one community, and been a full pandemic late catching the second.

This is what A4R looks like.

Every Viber who comes through the Media Hub brings something into the room that nobody else there carries in quite the same way — a country, a history, a worry about a friend back home, a question nobody else thought to ask. Some of that becomes published work. Some of it becomes a signal that reshapes what A4R builds next, years before the rest of the market catches up.

Five hands, one grip. None of them holding on for exactly the same reason. That’s not a weakness in the model. It’s the whole point of it.

Join the conversation

The A4R Media Hub is co-created by Gen Z, for Gen Z — on the issues that matter most, made by young people who refuse to look away.

🔗 Explore our latest work at arts4refugees.com

This piece was produced as part of the Ink & Ashes series at the Arts4Refugees Media Hub, in collaboration with the BizGees community and the Gen Z Vibers co-creating it.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to visit our gaming art here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

AT A GLANCE - Liberian women played a crucial role in ending the civil war and rebuilding communities, yet remain underrepresented politically and economically. Despite legal frameworks and grassroots initiatives, violence, stigma, cultural norms and weak enforcement continue to limit participation. Strengthening women’s leadership, rights, economic opportunities and collective advocacy is essential to sustainable peace and recovery.

Liberia: Women, Peace building, and the Persistent Struggle for Inclusion

In Liberia, women were central to peacebuilding and post-conflict recovery following the civil war (1989-2003), yet their influence in decision-making remains marginalized. The war subjected women to displacement, sexual violence, and the disintegration of community structures. An estimated 30–40% of all fighting forces were women and girls who joined for survival, protection, or coercion, and many endured brutal trauma. One survivor, forcibly recruited at age ten, recalled: “I stayed with them throughout the course of the war as I was so young and had nowhere else to go.”

Following the ceasefire, women’s groups, including the Women in Peacebuilding Network (WIPNET) and the Mano River Women’s Peace Network (MARWOPNET), mobilized. They participated in peace negotiations, organized public marches, and successfully advocated for the inclusion of women’s needs in the national rebuilding agenda. These efforts were foundational to the election of Liberia’s first female president, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, and culminated in the international recognition of Leymah Gbowee, Tawakkol Karman, and Ellen Johnson Sirleaf with a Nobel Peace Prize in 2011. Leymah Gbowee described how women saw each other beyond faith differences in their organising for peace across religious lines: “We saw each other not through the lens of our religion, but through the lens of our womanhood.”

After the war the UN standards ordered gender‑responsive Disarmament, Demobilisation, Rehabilitation and Reintegration (DDRR) after 2003, but implementation was limited. The DDRR plan included provisions such as care centres with special assistance in sexual trauma support.

Yet, as Leymah Gbowee observed, when women tried to participate in planning these programmes, they were discouraged: “The women who tried to get involved in the planning of the DDRR process were told to go home and take care of the children.” Many women avoided identifying as ex‑combatants for fear of stigma. Other barriers, from lack of childcare to safety concerns and fear of reprisals, also limited women’s engagement in reintegration and community rebuilding.

Nearly two decades after the conflict’s end, women’s political representation remains low. Women hold only one in nine parliamentary seats and head few government ministries. According to statistics released in March 2019 by the World Economic Forum, Liberia is currently listed low down on the global ranking of women representation in Parliament, at 151 out of 193.

Despite the existence of legal frameworks, such as gender quotas intended to boost representation, enforcement is demonstrably weak, limiting women’s practical influence on national recovery programs. Research into the implementation of the African Union’s Post‑Conflict Reconstruction and Development (PCRD) framework found that only about 15% of post‑conflict programmes in Liberia specifically addressed women and gender issues.

The Enduring Cost of Conflict

The challenges facing Liberian women extend beyond political underrepresentation to issues of fundamental safety. During the civil war, sexual violence was systematically directed against women and girls, many of whom were kidnapped, forced into sexual servitude, or left as sole caretakers for children and families after suffering the loss of male relatives. These experiences have created deep-seated, lasting trauma that complicates long-term recovery.

Post-conflict, sexual and gender-based violence (SGBV) continues to be prevalent, compounded by weak legal protections. Victims reporting abuse frequently face prolonged delays in the justice system, social stigma, or outright dismissal of their claims. The lack of security directly impedes women’s ability to fully participate in community and national reconstruction efforts.

Systemic Barriers to Inclusion

Several factors contribute to the difficulty women face in achieving full participation in post-conflict recovery:

• Cultural Norms: Entrenched beliefs regarding gender roles continue to restrict women’s access to education, leadership positions, and property rights.

• Political Barriers: Legal mechanisms intended to support women’s representation suffer from poor enforcement. Women remain underrepresented within political parties, government ministries, and legislative bodies.

• Economic Inequality: Women generally earn less than men and possess limited access to capital, land, and other resources necessary for meaningful involvement in reconstruction programs.

• Fragmented Advocacy: Numerous women’s organizations exist, yet they often operate in isolation, diminishing their collective influence on national policy.

Speaking Out Through Film and Shared Storytelling

To help break stigma and support reintegration, Amnesty International and Liberian partners used film to give voice to women’s experiences. In 2008, they released Women of Liberia: Fighting for Peace and toured the country with it. A former girl soldier featured in the film explained why sharing stories matters: “If I tell my story and listen to other people’s stories, we cry together. [Then] we come together and make a decision about what we want for our country and for women in Liberia. Because we are part of the decision‑making, and we have our rights.”

Grassroots Leadership in Recovery

Despite the barriers, grassroots leadership, community action, and women’s groups have been able to implement positive post conflict development. Across several counties, community‑led initiatives supported by organisations such as UN Women have empowered women through Peace Huts, where women receive literacy training, learn about their land and legal rights, and establish village savings and loans that allow them to start businesses and pay school fees for their children. In some of these Peace Huts, women report newfound confidence in public speaking and awareness that “women can contest in elections as candidates.” The United Nations in Liberia Groups like the Mano River Women’s Peace Network (MARWOPNET), together with associations such as the Association of Female Lawyers of Liberia, have provided trade training (for example seamstress skills), helped women secure contracts, and supported legal representation for victims of gender‑based crimes. Broader community initiatives have also increased women’s participation in land rights discussions: after sustained programmes to raise awareness of the 2018 Land Rights Act, more than 7,000 community members now better understand land rights, and women increasingly assume leadership roles in community land development and dispute resolution committees. In one case, women leaders successfully helped a widow regain her right to land ownership after her husband’s death. The United Nations in Liberia These efforts show that beyond formal politics, women are rebuilding economic foundations, asserting legal rights, and leading conflict resolution at the grassroots level. In another example, microfinance programs offer small loans to women to launch businesses, supporting their families and revitalizing local economies. However, such programs occasionally impose restrictions—such as requiring spousal approval for accessing funds—that reinforce traditional patriarchal norms.

A Path Toward Sustainable Progress

Experts and advocates emphasize that sustained progress requires a multi-layered strategy. Women’s representation in decision-making must be strengthened in practice, not just in legislation. This involves active enforcement of quotas and providing women with the training, mentorship, and resources needed to participate effectively.

Furthermore, legal frameworks require consistent enforcement. Laws designed to protect women from violence, discrimination, and exclusion must be applied uniformly across all levels of governance, from local judiciaries to national policy. Concurrently, communities must actively confront and change social norms that restrict women’s participation and fail to recognize the value of their socioeconomic contributions.

Feminist advocacy and collective organizing remain vital. Historically, women’s mobilization,from the mass protests that expedited the end of the war to campaigns for property rights and anti-rape legislation,has altered the course of Liberia’s peace process. Supporting these networks is essential to ensure that women’s voices not only register but lead to concrete action in post-conflict reconstruction.

To conclude

Liberia’s successful recovery is inextricably linked to the empowerment of its women. They have sustained communities through conflict and continue to spearhead their rebuilding. However, if women are denied equal access to political authority, economic resources, and protection from violence, the country risks sidelining half of its population, jeopardizing the sustainability of its peace. Inclusive recovery efforts, which recognize women as central peacebuilders, are universally shown to result in stronger communities, enhanced security, and a more sustainable future for all citizens. In Liberia, women have proven their capacity for post-conflict leadership and require both domestic and international support to continue building a safe and successful society.

In this episode Willow discusses the post conflict experience of Liberia and the experience of women who supported the struggle. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Same notification format as everything else competing for your attention this morning. Same rounded card, same clean presentation, same purple line borders enclosing a heavy piece of global data. But the message underneath asks something almost nobody else in your feed is asking—to look past the surface-level politics of migration and trace the invisible, compounding fracture of the earth beneath our feet.

The numbers themselves are staggering, verified by the Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES). Over 40 percent of the human population is adversely affected by land degradation. Up to $577 billion in annual crop production hangs in the balance due to pollinator loss.

That is a bigger structural crisis than it sounds.

Not a simple natural disaster. Not a calculation either.

It’s worth being explicit about what the imgae is not saying, because both wrong readings are easy to slide into.

This is not a message about temporary misfortune or an isolated natural disaster. Framing displacement as a sudden, unpredictable act of nature asks for reactive charity—a temporary band-aid, emergency aid packages, expecting nothing in return except the relief of having managed a crisis. That model has its place, but it is not A4R’s operating logic. A4R is not asking Vibers, or anyone reading this, to view climate displacement as an unpredictable flash flood. Ecological collapse is slow, structural, and predictable.

But the opposite reading is just as wrong, and arguably worse. This is not a cynical instrumental calculation—an attitude that says we can treat the biosphere like a transactional line item, optimizing carbon offsets on a spreadsheet while ignoring the people forced to abandon their homes when the topsoil turns to dust. Reduce human food security to a financial transaction, and you lose the very baseline of trust and predictability that allows a community to exist in one place. A strategy that treats environmental resilience as a mere marketing column isn’t an environmental solution anymore. It’s a transaction wearing sustainability’s clothes.

So what is it? Somewhere in between—a harder, more honest place to stand than either extreme.

Compound interest for our landscape.

Here’s the part that is genuinely closer to economics than to traditional environmentalism, even if it sounds strange to put it that way.

Environmental neglect doesn’t just produce a single, bad harvest. It builds into systemic degradation. Mismanaged soils lose their structure. Fragile ecosystems lose their pollinators. This ecological debt compounds—the same way financial debt does, except the interest payments aren’t cash; they are failing water tables, vanishing insects, and collapsing yields. The interest payments on our mistreatment of the earth are paid out in human displacement. When the baseline deposit of a landscape is entirely depleted, people do not move because they want a lifestyle change; they move because the land can no longer yield a return on the labor they invest.

That’s a reasonably literal description of how systemic displacement actually works. It is a trend that has grown relentlessly since the regional droughts of the mid-1980s, expanding to a global scale that impacts how we live, where we live, and what we eat.

The part a spreadsheet can’t capture.

Here is the metaphysical residue of our current era, and it deserves to be named rather than quietly dropped.

When a community’s land degrades to the point of non-viability, the cost returns to someone else entirely—often to a neighboring city, a stranger across a border, or a future generation inheriting a fractured culture of resource competition. If we only pay attention to environmental destruction when it visibly hits our immediate personal balance sheet, we miss the entire point of global interconnectedness.

The young journalists and creators who keep going have made peace with that reality. They understand that to heal the future, we have to start making different systemic deposits today. Look deeply at the root causes today, so our peers can navigate tomorrow with clarity. That’s the part compound interest can model, but a balance sheet can never fully resolve.

Where you make your first deposit.

This is where the A4R Media Hub becomes relevant—not as a metaphor, but as an actual place where this plays out.

For many of the 480+ Vibers who’ve passed through the programme over the past five years, the hardest part was never understanding that systemic trends compound. It was finding the time, the space, and the environment to actually process an overwhelming wave of global bad news. The world expects Gen Z to have immediate, fully formed opinions on complex global crises, while simultaneously bombarding them with transactional noise.

A4R changes that equation. It gives young people—many carrying their own complicated, lived histories of displacement—the training and opportunity to pause, think deeply, and unpack these massive macro-issues. It provides a dedicated environment where they can investigate root causes, like the ecological failures highlighted in the image and learn how to articulate these structural truths clearly to their own peer groups.

That’s not charity either. The Vibers aren’t given a platform for nothing. They’re given an account to invest in, and the tools to start making deposits—in their own integrity, their own journalistic capability, and their own deep research into the baseline causes of global crises long before the rest of the media ecosystem catches up. They are learning how to speak to their peers, not in the language of panic or outrage, but with the clarity of systemic understanding.

They’re investing anyway. That’s the whole article, in one sentence.

This is what A4R looks like.

Every Viber who comes through the Media Hub makes something real—and underneath the published article, the recorded story, the card designed to interrupt a feed with something true like this image, there is a quieter accumulation happening. Knowledge compounding into peer-to-peer awareness. Systemic storytelling compounding into genuine empathy. Good work, done consistently, compounding into a generation that refuses to look away from the root causes of our changing world.

It’s never too late to open the space for big ideas. Build the understanding today. Change how we talk about tomorrow.

Join the conversation The A4R Media Hub is co-created by Gen Z, for Gen Z—on the issues that matter most, made by young people who refuse to look away. 🔗 Explore our latest work at arts4refugees.com

This piece was produced as part of the Ink & Ashes series at the Arts4Refugees Media Hub, in collaboration with the BizGees community and the Gen Z Vibers co-creating it.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to visit our gaming art here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Northern Ireland’s Troubles are dormant, but were they ever truly gone? Remnants of the Irish conflict and its impact upon mental health.

The Troubles in Ireland officially ended with the signing of the Good Friday Agreement in April 1998. This agreement marked the end of nearly 30 years of violence within Northern and the Republic of Ireland. However, some argue that this supposed peace was not actually effective, seeing as the government largely failed to implement institutions to aid the citizens of Ireland to cope with the trauma and adversity of the post-conflict environment. Despite the official end of the conflict, the blatant presence of remaining violence within the nation, brings about questions such as: has the conflict truly ended or just gone dormant? Does the lack of followthrough risk a revival? Have the bandaids of the Good Friday Agreement done enough to heal the scars?

I have always had a large personal interest within this conflict due to my Irish heritage. I have grown up with the knowledge that the Troubles crumbled Ireland and damaged its people with it, leaving Ireland in both physical and mental rubble. A society reduced to rubble and the scares of a previous conflict left a negative imprint upon many people indefinitely, especially from a psychological standpoint. Although the Republic of Ireland has managed to increase their economic and social prosperity by robust policies such as large tax breaks for big businesses, bringing in a surplus of revenue to the economy, Northern Ireland still carries the burden of a 30-year long conflict nonetheless. During the war and some of the post-war period, Northern Ireland was not able to industrialise and develop as most Western nations would, leaving them behind in many categories within the international stage. This also left them lacking essential elements within their society, such as mental health aid and healthcare provisions for those who would have been directly or indirectly involved within the conflict.

The Troubles and its post-conflict community tend to be overlooked, seeing as the issue was not considered as fatal or wide-spread as other conflicts with its 3,600 death, compared with other issues such as the Rawandan genocide or the genocide in Bosnia and Herzegovia with 800,00 and 33,000 respectively. However, “insignificant” these numbers may seem in comparison with such wide-spread and brutalistic conflicts, the severe impact that The Troubles had and still has upon the Irish community is in no way minimised. The above numbers do not accurately represent the trauma that this conflict had upon past communities and still has upon present ones. An example of this can be found within the case of 18 year old John and his brother. These boys were reportedly held at gunpoint and taken by paramilitaries during the time of the Troubles. They were later beaten and tortured for a minimum of 8 hours. The boys reported that a multitude of other citizens and army patrols continued to circulate the area, likely at least somewhat aware of the malice that was occurring in the only somewhat secluded house that they resided in for those 8 hours. Nonetheless, no one came to their aid. During the period of 1968 to 1998, events such as kneecapping, kidnapping, torture and bombings became heavily normalised within Irish society. This led to average citizens being subjected to brutalistic events without causing all that much uproar from the local community, due to the increasing frequency of these events and a shared sense of hopelessness. It must be noted that even though these activities significantly diminished with the ending of The Troubles, the Northern Irish government’s inability to bounce back from the conflict and re-build essential institutions left many victims without hope of solace or the ability to receive mental health attention that they so direly needed. This can once again be seen within the case of John and his brother, who received no medical or psychological attention after thir endured torture.

Northern Ireland is estimated to have approximately 25% higher mental health issues, compared to the rest of the UK. This statistic can be largely attributed to the fact that approximately ⅔ of Northern Ireland’s adult population have one or more traumatic experiences, with The Troubles being the root cause for half of these. There is a trend seen within Northern Ireland, where young men and poorer communities are impacted significantly more by the lasting impacts of The Troubles. It is largely known that violence and aggression have been prevalent themes embedded within Irish society as a result of the brutalities of the Troubles. However, what is not so commonly acknowledged is the gender dimension of the lasting impacts of the conflict. Men are four times more likely to have PTSD, depression, and anxiety than women within this case scenario. This is predominantly because of the fact that men are more likely to be victims of intimidation, punishment, beatings, and assault by paramilitary groups. Violence is still ingrained within Northern Irish society despite the principle that conflict is “absent”. There are still a multitude of people who are forced to reside in areas of chronic, long-term violence and as a consequence, the levels of suicide within the nation have skyrocketted. This is a country that has supposedly removed itself from the active state of conflict and implemented the necessary elements in order to lead themselves towards a lasting peace, but the truth is that despite however convincing all of these “robust” agreements may seem, they all share a commonality in their negligence to address the needs of the post-conflict community and the trauma that has been imposed upon them till this day.

Presently, Ireland has had numerous agreements and conferences with the intent of diminishing the tension between all parties directly involved within The Troubles; Northern Ireland, the Republic of Ireland, and England. Examples of such are the Good Friday Agreement (1998), Stormont Agreement (2014), and the Northern Ireland Protocol (2023). These agreements, along with the multitude of others that accompany them give the impression that institutions have been implemented to effectively deal with this conflict, but the reality is that the institutions and commitments tied with conventions such as the Stormont Agreement have yet to be implemented by the Northern Irish government. An example of this can be seen in 2016 with the United Kingdom government’s reluctance to release the information collected on the conflict by the Historical Investigation Unit created by the latter agreement, as a means of protecting themselves from public backlash, which consequently prevented the conflict’s victims from reaching further justice. Due to the government’s negligence to adhere to their promises, civil society has increasingly taken it upon themselves to lead equity initiatives, such as ‘Relatives for Justice’ (RfJ), which is an NGO providing survivors of The Troubles and their relatives with legal and therapeutic support.

The mental health of Northern Irish citizens has been diminished by the government’s negligence to provide them with the necessary resources to heal. It was stated by Maureen Hetherington in the paper titled ‘Possibilities: Mental Health in post-Agreement Northern Ireland’ that ‘justice is critically important to victims and survivors’ that many victims will not allow themselves to heal until they feel that justice has been sufficiently served, for if not they may carry guilt by moving on from the situation if they cannot deem that their relatives and other loved ones who were largely impacted by the conflict have been ‘avenged’. This prolonging of the conflict mentality means that the ideologies, heartbreak, and normalities associated with the conflict also remain prominent within Northern Irish society. All of this is accompanied by a large resentment from the Northern Irish people, as they hold their government largely responsible for their inability to heal.

It must also be acknowledged that the issues so far addressed do not only impact Northern Irish society, but also the economy. The spike in mental health troubles have led to a significant financial burden being placed upon the nation. It has been estimated that approximately 3.4 billion pounds per year is spent on health and social care, unpaid carers, and lost productivity, due to those who are unable to work for periods of time as a consequence of debilitating mental health issues. These costs from Northern Ireland also burden the rest of the UK, seeing as they have a system where costs and transfers are shared across all four nations. This issue has led to a UK-wide productivity deficit and larger public spending demands. This government funding gap also leads to further defunding of essential mental health services not just within Northern Ireland, but also the whole of the UK, which perpetuates the struggle of acquiring attention for mental health needs and contributes to further a rise in the levels of mental health issues.

It is crucial to prioritise mental health and overall social rehabilitation within post-conflict communities. Because, as demonstrated here, the result of a negligence to do so is a struggling population who are still forced to endure elements of active conflict within a supposedly post-conflict environment. Stories of violence and corruption such as John’s existed almost 30 years ago during the times of The Troubles, but what is seldom acknowledged is that there are still many equally impactful stories also being created at this moment due to present violence and somewhat “latent” conflict within Northern Irish society.

In this episode Ava discusses the post conflict experience of Northern Ireland and the mental health issues the communties are facing there. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

The Number That Doesn’t Add Up

Ninety-two million tons. That’s how much clothing the world sends to landfill every year — the equivalent of a garbage truck full of textiles dumped every second, somewhere on Earth, all day, every day.

Here’s the harder number: of the 80 to 150 billion garments manufactured annually, somewhere between 8 and 60 billion are never sold at all. Not worn out. Not unwanted by a customer. Simply never bought — overproduced by a system built to manufacture first and ask questions later, where fewer than one in ten brands even disclose how much they make.

Add to that the human side of the equation: most garments are discarded after just seven to ten wears. People are buying 60% more clothing than they did fifteen years ago and keeping each item for half as long.

None of this is news to anyone who’s spent time around A4R. We’ve been platforming Gen Z journalism on displacement, on trauma, on the long tail of conflict for months now. But this story isn’t really about waste. It’s about who the industry built its rules for — and who it left out.

A Standard Built for a Building

Here’s the question that doesn’t get asked often enough: when an industry says a product is “ethically made,” what does it actually mean? Usually, it means someone audited a factory. A building with a roof, a shift register, a fire exit, a line of machines.

That model works, as far as it goes. But it has a blind spot the size of a continent. An estimated 300 million people worldwide — the overwhelming majority of them women — do this work not in a factory but from their own homes or small workshops. Hand-knotting rugs. Embroidering by lamplight. Stringing beads between school runs and cooking dinner. For generations, none of the standard compliance frameworks built for factories had anything coherent to say about them. Not because their work was lesser, but because nobody had designed a ruler that could measure a kitchen table.

That’s the gap a Gen Z researcher runs into almost immediately the first time they try to write seriously about ethical fashion. The instinct is to reach for the familiar checklist — audited factory, traceable supply chain, certified compliance — and apply it to artisan communities. It doesn’t fit. The category doesn’t exist yet for a woman who is, by any honest measure, more skilled than most factory workers the standard was written for, and who is being economically penalised for working in the way that lets her also raise her children and protect her own wellbeing.

Learning to notice that gap — rather than paper over it with the nearest available language — is itself part of what peer-to-peer training through A4R is built to teach. It’s a small, specific kind of literacy: the ability to see where a system’s categories run out, instead of assuming the system was complete.

Where the Gap Got Closed

This isn’t an abstract problem for us. It’s one we’ve spent years working inside.

The Swat Valley, in northern Pakistan, is one of the world’s great living centres of hand embroidery and high-end woollen textile work — embroidery and weaving that is, by heritage and by skill, Savile Row quality. It also endured the Taliban insurgency and a brutal military campaign to retake the region, and it’s the home valley of Malala Yousafzai. After the conflict, Zufi Deo co-founded the Swat Valley Guild with Wali, a local entrepreneur who had previously created 500 jobs in the region through an emerald mining initiative. Their aim was straightforward and, at the time, unfashionable: connect Swat’s artisans and weavers to the global marketplace, on terms that protected their heritage rather than industrialising it out of existence — while also confronting the fashion industry’s own problems with wastage and quality assurance from the inside.

The missing piece was exactly the gap described above: a way to verify and certify ethical practice for artisans working from home, in a sector built almost entirely around standards for factories. The Swat Valley Guild became a member of Nest, the nonprofit that had set out to solve precisely this problem — developing, in partnership with the International Labor Organization’s principles, the first universally applicable standards for decentralised, home-based supply chains anywhere in the world. As a Guild member, the Swat Valley Guild worked toward compliance with Nest’s Standards for Homes and Small Workshops, a process that helped formalise and organise the Guild’s own artisanal supply chain for the first time.

That mattered because it changed what was provable. A buyer in London or New York no longer had to take it on faith that home-based work was being done fairly. There was a standard — built specifically for this kind of labour, not borrowed awkwardly from a factory model — and a path to demonstrate alignment with it.

A Bag That Makes the Argument on Its Own

This article was written with the support of Debbie Moorhouse, a sustainable fashion designer who has spent years working on the same question raised above: how a piece is actually made matters as much as how it’s marketed. Through our support, she co-designed an emerald clutch bag with the Swat Valley Guild — built around the same combination Wali had identified at the Guild’s founding: hand embroidery and weaving of Savile Row quality, paired with emeralds sourced from the same valley.

It’s a small object that makes a large argument: that craftsmanship this precise doesn’t need to imitate luxury, because it already is luxury — it has simply been priced, marketed, and distributed as though it weren’t.

A garment produced this way carries a different relationship between maker and buyer than anything fast fashion can offer. The artisan is named. The valley is named. The hands are named. There’s no 92-million-ton mystery at the end of its life, because nothing about its beginning was anonymous either.

Set that beside the fast-fashion numbers. A garment worn seven times before landfill, produced inside a system so opaque that even its own scale is a matter of estimate, versus a single object that can name its maker, her valley, and the designer who chose to work with her rather than around her. Same industry. Two entirely different relationships between maker and buyer.

What This Trains Gen Z To See

A4R’s vocational training exists to produce Vibers who can hold both halves of this story at once — the systemic critique and the human specificity — without collapsing one into the other. It’s not enough to feel moved by an artisan’s skill. It’s not enough to cite a damning statistic. The training is in connecting them: understanding that “92 million tons of landfill” and “a woman in Swat being paid 25% above the going rate for her work with us” are not two separate stories but one story, told from opposite ends of the same broken system.

That’s a different kind of content literacy than most of the industry is teaching young creators right now — and it’s the reason this work doesn’t read like a brand campaign. It reads like an investigation that happens to end somewhere hopeful.

Where This Goes From Here

The standards exist now. The proof of concept exists now — in Swat, in a clutch bag carrying real emeralds and real craft from a named valley into the global marketplace, in a partnership that predates most of the industry’s current conversation about overproduction. What’s still being built is the pipeline of people who know how to find these stories, verify them, and tell them honestly to a generation that has every reason to be skeptical of “ethical” as a marketing word.

That’s the work. Buy the craft. Train the storyteller. Close the gap the standard forgot.

Join the conversation

The A4R Media Hub is co-created by Gen Z, for Gen Z — on the issues that matter most, made by young people who refuse to look away.

🔗 Explore our latest work at arts4refugees.com

This piece was produced as part of the Ink & Ashes series at the Arts4Refugees Media Hub, in collaboration with the BizGees community and the Gen Z Vibers co-creating it.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to visit our gaming art here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

AT A GLANCE - Mosul’s youth are rebuilding more than infrastructure—they are reclaiming identity, dignity, and agency after ISIS. Through education, local initiatives, and creative expression, they are reshaping their city’s narrative. Despite ongoing economic and social challenges, their efforts highlight a shift from recovery as survival to recovery as self-determined and community-led transformation.

Backstory

After ISIS: How Mosul’s Youth are Rebuilding Identity, Not Just Cities

On a quiet afternoon in Mosul, the sound of construction blends with the laughter of university students returning to campus. Less than a decade ago, these same streets were controlled by the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS), which seized the city in 2014 and ruled until its defeat in 2017. Today, while buildings and infrastructure are being restored, deeper reconstruction is also taking place—one centred on identity, dignity, and the ability of young people to imagine a future. At first glance, young people in Mosul may seem worlds away, but in reality, they are just like us: young, determined, and ambitious. The only real difference between Gen Z in Mosul and their peers in the West is geographical chance.

Imagine being known globally for something you didn’t choose. The youth in Mosul are like any other: they had plans and dreams, but had to put these on pause, and instead focus on simply surviving. While they struggled to survive under occupation, they were seen internationally as ‘terrorists’ or a lost generation. Even after the conflict ended in 2017, and reconstruction began, the world seemed to forget about the social costs of war. Gen Z in Mosul were stripped of their identity and dignity, but through local organizations such as Mosul Heritage House and Mosul space, they are beginning to reclaim their narrative and cultural identity.

The idea of Mosul Heritage House (MHH) emerged in 2017, after the second-longest war in modern history. As a result of the conflict, Mosul suffered the loss of various archaeological and heritage sites, a deliberate attempt to strip the city of its identity

and sever its people’s connection to their roots. Inspired by the city’s rich history, MHH documents and promotes Mosul’s heritage, initially through social media, but now more so through developmental programs, events and activities. This has allowed young people to connect with their roots and become proud of their culture. Rather than accepting the narratives imposed on them, Gen Z in Mosul can redefine their narrative, and control how they’re perceived.

Mosul Space is another local organisation whose focus lies in helping young people reclaim their dignity and identity. This youth-led cultural and educational hub offers workshops, community events, and discussions. Their values include ‘making a difference’, ‘community’ and ‘leadership’, which are reflected in their efforts to empower participants to drive social change, rebuild local networks, and take an active role in shaping the city’s recovery. According to Mosul Space, over 5,000 trainees (40% female) have completed over 150 training programmes and workshops in tech and business. Not only this, but over 10,000 youths have been engaged with more than 100 startups beginning their journey through Mosul Space’s activities.

Yet their impact extends far beyond employment. It signals a broader restoration of identity and dignity among Mosul’s youth. By equipping young people with the tools to create, lead, and innovate, Mosul Space enables them to reclaim agency over their futures and challenge narratives that once reduced them to victims or security risks. In doing so, these initiatives contribute to reshaping Mosul’s story—from one defined by conflict and destruction to one rooted in resilience, creativity, and renewal—while reconnecting a new generation to the city’s cultural and social fabric.

For many young people in Mosul, conflict did not erase ambition; it delayed it. They had plans of being students, entrepreneurs, and professionals—plans interrupted not by choice, but by geographical circumstance. During restoration after the conflict, education served as a foundation for self-actualisation. The University of Mosul stands as a powerful symbol of resilience after extensive destruction during ISIS occupation. As one of the largest research and educational centres in the Middle East, and the second largest in Iraq, the university signals the return of intellectual life, ambition and a sense of normality. Education remains one of the clearest pathways to future careers and identity rebuilding and the return of students after such disruption reflects their discipline and ambition.

This process is reinforced by local organizations such as SPARK, which support youth across Iraq through higher education, vocational training and SME development. Through tackling skills mismatch and unemployment, SPARK has enabled the youth to translate education into tangible opportunities. This reflects a broader shift in Mosul’s recovery—from rebuilding infrastructure to rebuilding people, where the focus moves beyond jobs alone to agency, participation, and community rebuilding.

It is through this combination of education and opportunity that self-actualisation becomes possible. In Mosul, this is not simply about careers or economic participation; it is about reclaiming the right to imagine a future. In doing so, this generation is not only rebuilding their own lives but also restoring a sense of dignity and contributing to the redefinition of the city’s collective identity.

Reclaiming the right to imagine a future is only the beginning. Across Mosul, young people are now turning that vision into action. They are not waiting for change—they are creating it.

In the years following the conflict, youth have increasingly taken on active roles within their communities, contributing not only to physical recovery but also to social cohesion. Through volunteer-led initiatives, informal networks, and peer-driven projects, they are addressing local needs and rebuilding trust at the community level. These forms of engagement reflect a shift from participation to ownership, as young people move from being recipients of aid to drivers of change.

Nowhere is this shift more visible than in the digital space, where young Iraqis are using photography, social media, and storytelling to challenge dominant narratives of conflict and destruction. Emerging photographers and content creators from Mosul document everyday life in the city, capturing moments of resilience and cultural continuity that are often absent from international coverage. In doing so, they are not only preserving memory but actively reshaping how Mosul is perceived both locally and globally.

Beyond digital platforms, youth are also contributing to the preservation and revival of cultural identity. Through community engagement and grassroots initiatives, they are reclaiming spaces, histories, and narratives that were once threatened or erased.

In this sense, contribution in Mosul extends beyond rebuilding infrastructure; it is about rebuilding meaning. By actively shaping their communities and redefining their city’s story, young people demonstrate that recovery is not something done for them, but something led by them.

Despite these advances, significant challenges continue to shape the lives of young people in Mosul. Unemployment remains persistently high, particularly among youth, limiting the ability to translate skills and education into stable livelihoods. While initiatives have expanded access to training and entrepreneurship, opportunities in the formal labour market remain constrained, leaving many navigating precarious or informal work.

Beyond economic barriers, the psychological impact of conflict continues to affect a generation that grew up amid violence and instability. Experiences of displacement, loss, and disrupted education have left lasting effects, often shaping both personal and professional trajectories. Social constraints also persist. Gender norms, limited access to finance, and uneven infrastructure development continue to restrict opportunities for many, particularly women and those from marginalised communities.

However, acknowledging these challenges does not undermine progress. Rather, it highlights the complexity of recovery in Mosul—where resilience and ambition coexist with structural constraints, and where the path to long-term stability remains ongoing.

Mosul’s future is no longer defined by the shadows of its past but by the determination of a generation rewriting its story. The aspirations of young people in Mosul mirror those of their peers around the world. The only real difference is geographical chance. By recognising this shared humanity, we move beyond distant empathy and towards genuine connection.

Sources

https://mosulspace.org/

https://www.mosulheritage.org/en/about-3 https://uomosul.edu.iq/en/

https://spark.ngo/middle-east-and-north-africa/iraq/

In this episode Hafsa discusses life after ISIS in Mosul with a focus on how the next generation are education, local initiatives, and creative expression. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

A Completely Normal Thursday

She’s standing in the aisle, phone up, scanning the tag on a jacket. Not checking the price — she already knows that. She’s asking the AI assistant built into her shopping app a different question: who made this, and under what conditions? It takes five seconds. She moves to the next rack before the answer even fully loads.

A decade ago, this would have meant hours: digging through a brand’s sustainability page, cross-referencing a certification logo against a list she’d have had to find first, reading a glossy paragraph designed to sound like an answer without giving one. Now it’s a reflex, no more deliberate than checking a nutrition label. This is what it looks like to be the first generation that grew up asking an AI before buying, instead of after regretting.

“As consumers we have so much power to change the world by just being careful in what we buy,” Emma Watson has said. For most of the people who’ve nodded along to that sentence, being careful meant doing the homework yourself — and most people, most of the time, don’t have the hours. For the generation scanning tags mid-scroll, the homework increasingly does itself. The power Watson described isn’t aspirational anymore. It’s becoming operational, one scan at a time.

A Generation Fluent in a Question the Industry Hasn’t Learned to Answer

Here’s what’s actually new about this moment. It isn’t that Gen Z cares more about ethics than previous generations — every generation has had people who cared. What’s new is fluency: an entire cohort that asks “show me your supply chain” as casually as a previous generation asked “is this on sale?” It’s not research. It’s instinct, built into the shopping habit itself.

The trouble is that the industry on the other end of that question is still speaking an older language. Across the 250 largest fashion brands, the average transparency score sits at just 26%. Fewer than four in ten major brands even disclose their tier-1 factories — the most basic, surface-level layer of “where was this made,” let alone who made it or how they were treated. When a generation fluent in a new kind of question runs into an industry that has barely started learning how to respond, the gap doesn’t show up as silence. It shows up as a smooth, generic paragraph that sounds like an answer and isn’t one.

That gap is worth sitting with, because it’s not really a technology problem. The AI assistant isn’t failing to find the answer — it’s accurately reporting that there isn’t one to find. A chatbot can only repeat what’s actually been disclosed, verified, and digitized. When the response is vague, evasive, or suspiciously upbeat with no specifics, that’s not a glitch in the system. It’s the brand’s actual transparency, showing through a five-second scan, whether the brand intended to reveal it or not.

The Demand Was Never the Problem

What makes this moment different from every previous round of “ethical consumer” messaging is that the appetite is no longer niche. The majority of consumers — not a dedicated minority — say they’re willing to pay more for a transparent supply chain, and a clear majority say they’ll actually switch brands over it. This isn’t a small group of people willing to pay a premium for a feeling. It’s mainstream commercial leverage that’s been sitting unused, waiting for the infrastructure to make it actionable.

That infrastructure is arriving in pieces — digital product passports, QR-linked traceability platforms, apps that let a shopper see a garment’s actual environmental footprint and verify the hours its makers logged. None of it is universal yet, and none of it makes a brand’s claims true just by existing. But it’s the first time the tools to ask the question and to actually verify the answer have lived in the same five seconds, in the same hand, mid-aisle.

Hearing a Non-Answer for What It Is

Go back to the aisle. The shopper gets her answer — and imagine, for a moment, that it’s vague. A line about “committed to ethical sourcing,” no names, no numbers, no specifics. The easy mistake is to read that as harmless marketing filler and move on, jacket in hand. The more useful read is to recognize it as data: this brand, asked directly, had nothing real to say.

That’s the actual skill underneath all of this, and it’s not a technical one. Knowing how to scan a tag is trivial. Knowing what a real answer looks like — a named factory, a verified certification, a specific number — versus what a generated-sounding non-answer looks like is a kind of literacy nobody is teaching deliberately. It’s the difference between using a tool and understanding what the tool is actually telling you.

This is the literacy A4R’s vocational training exists to build in young creators: not just the instinct to ask, which this generation already has, but the discipline to evaluate what comes back — to treat a vague answer as information in its own right, rather than as a reason to stop asking. Watson’s “power to change the world” was never really about the moment of purchase. It’s about what you do with the answer you get, and whether you’re equipped to tell a real one from a hollow one.

That’s the gap between a generation that asks and a generation that knows what it’s listening for. Closing it is the work.

Join the conversation

The A4R Media Hub is co-created by Gen Z, for Gen Z — on the issues that matter most, made by young people who refuse to look away.

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This piece was produced as part of the Ink & Ashes series at the Arts4Refugees Media Hub, in collaboration with the BizGees community and the Gen Z Vibers co-creating it.

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AT A GlANCE - After five decades in exile, Sahrawi refugees in Algeria’s Tindouf camps continue to face profound challenges to health, safety, autonomy and self-actualization. Despite developing education and healthcare systems, humanitarian aid remains insufficient and economic opportunities scarce. As international support increasingly favours Morocco’s autonomy plan, Sahrawi hopes for dignity, independence and a lasting solution continue to fade.

Life in Limbo: The Struggle for Human Needs of Sahrawi Refugees after 50 years in Exile.

‘It is not a tent:

it is a provisional motherland

where time learns

not to advance.’

Haima, Bahia Mahmud Awah (translation)

Nestled among sandy dunes, where the scorching Sahara regularly reaches over 50ºC in the summer, stands the Algerian city of Tindouf. But this city is not the real subject of this article. Instead, that title goes to the five refugee camps around Tindouf –El Aaiun, Awserd, Smara, Dakhla and Cape Bojador– and the 173,600 Sahrawi refugees that the UN estimates live in them.

It was back in 2024, while volunteering for the Red Cross, that I first heard of the Sahrawis and Tindouf. Back then, I had the chance to work with Brahim, a 22-year-old Sahrawi refugee who had managed to settle in Spain. He would tell me stories of a forgotten people in dire circumstances, frozen in time and stuck in a conflict with no clear end in sight, all at the very gates of Europe. Though Brahim later moved to Madrid, it has been his stories, pictures and experience that have inspired me to write this article and highlight the struggles of over 100,000 people for dignity, safety and ultimately, a home.

Brahim, like most other Sahrawi refugees, traces his ancestry to Western Sahara, a region in dispute between Morocco and the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic (SADR) since 1975, when both Morocco and Mauritania invaded as Spanish colonial rule ended. Mauritania would retreat and sign a peace agreement in 1979, but the region remained in a state of conflict until 1991, when a UN-brokered ceasefire entered into force, leaving around 80% of the territory to Morocco and the other 20% to the SADR. The UN would form MINURSO, its mission to both monitor the ceasefire and organise an independence referendum in Western Sahara in under 6 months.

Yet, this did not occur. The referendum never took place, and after 30 years of stagnation and failed promises for a diplomatic solution, the ceasefire broke down in 2020. Yet, for most Sahrawi refugees in Tindouf, the situation is the same as it was 5, 10 and over 50 years ago: An inability to return to their homes, a humanitarian crisis that has only worsened throughout years of international neglect and a reliance on foreign aid to survive.

And this survival is not the same thing as living. For the first generation who fled in 1975, the refugee camps were a price to pay for an eventual return. Yet, for most of their descendants, the camps represent limitations, and the closest they have ever been to the cities they are named after. Autonomy and opportunities are restricted due to the harsh climate, while the very identity of the Sahrawi people as a distinct group continues to be put under pressure by Morocco. To be Sahrawi is to exist politically and diplomatically, but not territorially, bearing an identity whose existence and significance is under constant attack.

However, not all is bad. The Tindouf camps, which are the second oldest in the world only behind those of Palestine, have seen several positive developments in the past half a century. Most notably, the SADR runs its own public education and healthcare systems, with remarkable results. Literacy rates have increased from under 10% in 1975 to over 90%, while nursing and midwifery schools have been created to train and employ local Sahrawis.

Yet, these developments are not enough, and the camps around Tindouf still face significant challenges. There is a severe lack of economic opportunities around the camps, leaving the need for contribution and to shape one’s own future unmet. Additionally, there is no local education beyond secondary school, making self-actualization and academic growth an odyssey for young Sahrawis. At the same time, civil liberties and democratic rights in the camps are restricted by the POLISARIO, as opposition parties are banned and election processes are limited to operate within the front itself.

Climate change has also made the extreme weather of the region even more unstable. Droughts and floods have increased in strength and number, causing chaos and widespread destruction in the camps. Paired with plagues of mosquitoes and a UN aid relief program inadequate to meet the basic nutritional needs of the Sahrawi population –with over 13% of children suffering from acute malnutrition–, the physical safety and wellbeing of the Sahrawis is increasingly unsteady.

Meanwhile, more members of the international community, particularly Western countries, are beginning to support Morocco’s autonomy plan for the region –which advocates for Western Sahara to become a mostly autonomous but not sovereign region of Morocco–, further straining the refugees’ bid for the outright independence of their homeland. In many ways, hope itself is beginning to run low among the camps. Many are tired of the continuation of a situation they see no end to, and others, particularly among the youth, are becoming radicalised after seeing decades of presence but inaction from the UN and the wider international community. These feelings are further flared due to Morocco’s settler scheme, which brought in hundreds of thousands of Moroccans onto the parts of Western Sahara under its control. In 2015, it was estimated that around two thirds of the region’s 500,000 strong population were settlers or direct descendents from said settlers.

This new population of Western Sahara-born ethnic moroccans that inhabit the area insure Morocco’s present and future justification to continue its presence in the region, and many Saharauis feel betrayed by the UN’s lack of action during the settling. Now though, the conflict is often seen as ever more unsolvable, as the population descendent of the settlers, tens of thousands strong, also has a right to stay on the land they were born in. International law has no answers, and so –following the US’s recognition of Moroccan sovereignty over Western Sahara in exchange for Morocco recognising Israel–, a cascade of mostly Western nations began to support Morocco’s autonomy plan as the ‘only viable solution’ to the conflict, and in some cases cut ties with the SADR. Therefore, it appears that the international community begins to face even further away from the hundreds of thousands of Sahrawis in the Tindouf camps, simply calling the conflict ‘unsolvable’ after decades of inaction. And even then, little has been done in the way of easing the hardships of the refugees and trying to reach a solution, all the while the Sahrawi refugees around Tindouf continue to suffer significant challenges to achieve their basic needs, not just in development or self actualization, but in health and safety too.

Now, the Tindouf camps, having set up their own basic healthcare and education, will probably be able to endure and maintain minimal standards of living even through the current period of hardship and international neglect and even opposition. But again, survival does not equate to a life with dignity, nor does it assure that basic needs like proper healthcare, freedom, justice, esteem, self-actualization or safety are present.

When I spoke with Brahim, he described growing up in a place that was never meant to last, and where making changes to make it last means settling in the current status quo for their inhabitants. And so, fifty years later, the tents remain. Schools teach, clinics operate, aid arrives, insufficient as it may be. But as Bahia Mahmud Awah writes, time has learned not to advance. For the Sahrawi refugees, survival has proven possible. Yet, the international community must look to break the silence around the region and ensure that, beyond survival, dignity, autonomy and hope can flow into the camps, lest they are forced to endure yet another half a century of limbo.

In this episode rafael discusses the post conflict experience of Sahwari Refugees. What the situation on the ground is decades down the road. He is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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Ciao Trailblazers,

What happens when the conflict ends? What happens when the revolutions are over? How do people cope with rebuilding their lives? How do people cope with rebuiding their communties? This has been the core of what we focus here. It has been the bases of our work with GenZ. We took the approach to co create news with GenZ to inspire you and their generation to get invloved in shaping the news. GenZ inspired news with us focuses on the human needs of these communties. Now we have also progressed to adding the economic aspects to the mix as well - we collaboarte with Impact Entrepreneur Magazine for this.

Here is a good example -

• How the 2003 Border Reopening is Changing the Face of Cypriot Identity? Link here.

• Business Across the Green Line. What Cyprus’s bicommunal enterprises reveal about trust, trade, and divided economies? Link here.

Both these articles were researched and authored by Ariel. The first one was for us with a focus on the human needs of the communites rebuilding themselves. The second, focuses on the economic side of rebuilding after the conflict is over and published by Impact Entrepreneurship Magazine.

We co create with GenZ becuase we feel you understand the world we live as much as the rest of us. You have your own generational perspective which is entering the mainstream as you enter the mainstream of society and the economy. Your perspective to us matters. It is fresh and has meaning to your own peer groups as well. More importantly, it ensures you are engaged in issues impacting communties recovering from conflict. You understand their actual needs. You understand how long it can take for a community rebuilf itself once the conflict is over. You understand the underlying issues these communites have and how similar they are to your won daily struggles.

Here are some background articles about us as a community. In case yu missed them - look’em up here.

• Guest Post - Connecting the Dots to Amplify BizGees Social Impact Advocacy by from Jackie Abramian Founder of Global Cadence. Link here. Jackie has supported us over the years. We co created the current Citizen Journalism programme with her support.

• Ink & Ashes - They Told Us, So We Changed: How Gen Z Redesigned A4R From the Inside. Link here.

• Ink & Ashes - A Pattern, Not a Coincidence. Link here.

So, don’t forget to share and tell your friends.

Raw & Real from GenZ - unfiltered updates

Click here to play, listen and learn more about famous refugees from an arty background we all love.

Click here for the podcasts and articles about how communites recovering conflict are coping with their human needs.

Learn more about the exclusive merchandise you can unlock with Norbett Brainin NFT here

Don’t forget to scale our impact we need your support. You can make a direct donation - these are tax deductible only for US tax payers at the moment. Support us here.

It’s great to have you with us along this journey. Till next month — enjoy our vibers work along the way. 😊

With gratitude,

Zufi, Michael, Jackie, Victoria & the Vibers.

Newsletter Summary Report

Primary Focus

This newsletter examines what happens after conflict and revolution end, with a particular focus on how individuals and communities rebuild their lives, identities, relationships and economies.

Key Themes

• Post-conflict recovery and community rebuilding.

• Human needs and the long-term challenges faced by communities after conflict.

• The economic dimensions of recovery, including trust, trade and cross-community cooperation.

• Gen Z participation in journalism and shaping how stories about conflict and recovery are reported.

Featured Research and Articles

Cyprus: Identity and Post-Conflict Recovery
Gen Z contributor Ariel researched and authored two articles examining different aspects of Cyprus following the reopening of the border in 2003:

• How the 2003 Border Reopening is Changing the Face of Cypriot Identity? explores the human and social impact of the border reopening and its influence on identity and communities.

• Business Across the Green Line examines bicommunal enterprises and the role of trust, trade and economic cooperation in divided communities.

Together, these articles demonstrate A4R Media Hub’s approach to examining both the human and economic dimensions of rebuilding after conflict.

Gen Z Co-Created Journalism

A4R Media Hub works with Gen Z contributors, known as Vibers, to co-create journalism and media. The approach is based on the belief that Gen Z brings a distinct generational perspective to issues affecting communities recovering from conflict and can play an active role in shaping the news and public conversation.

The newsletter also references the development of A4R’s Gen Z citizen journalism programme, including the role of community collaboration in shaping the programme.

Additional Background Content

The newsletter links to previous articles covering:

• The development of A4R’s Gen Z-led citizen journalism approach.

• How Gen Z contributors helped redesign A4R Media Hub.

• Patterns and shared experiences affecting communities and social issues explored by the A4R community.

Media and Community Resources

This edition also includes:

• Micro-games exploring the stories of famous refugees from artistic and cultural backgrounds.

• Podcasts and articles examining how communities recovering from conflict address their human needs.

• Information about the Norbett Brainin NFT and associated merchandise.

• Information on supporting Arts4Refugees through donations - Tax deductible for US tax payers.

Overall Context

The newsletter presents A4R Media Hub’s continuing work to connect Gen Z perspectives with stories about post-conflict recovery. Its current editorial focus combines human needs, community resilience, identity and economic recovery to better understand the long-term process of rebuilding after conflict.

A4R 🎨 Monthly is a user supported publication. Don’t forget to tell others about us.

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Back Story

Art providing hope: meet the Artist whose cartoons help transform the lives of Syrian children

When civil war broke out, Diala Brisly fled Syria, travelling to Turkey and Lebanon where she found a new mission: helping children heal. Campaigning against the Assad regime showed Diala the power of her drawings and in Beirut she found that painting bright murals collaboratively with children gave them space to process their trauma. She is a driving force behind the children’s magazine Zayton and Zaytonah (Olive and Olivia) which reminds Syrian children how to be normal despite their experiences. Her work often serves as a visual education for children in refugee camps with little access to school. Diala now resides in southern France where she has shifted her focus to her story and personal experience as a refugee. Her work grapples with themes like ‘survivor’s guilt’ and what it means to carry your culture around with you.

The conflict in Syria:

The situation in Syria started to become dangerous for Diala following the outbreak of the civil war. Pro-democracy demonstrations, linked to the Arab Spring in 2011 were met by brutality from the government. The Free Syrian Army was formed by defectors from the Syrian Army with the aim of overthrowing the Assad regime, an authoritarian dictatorship headed by President Bashar al-Assad. His rule was characterised by violence and oppression and during the war itself he is thought to have uses chemical weapons, and dropped barrel bombs on civilian neighbourhoods, including schools and hospitals. Through 55,000 images, the Caesar files document the industrial scale torture and execution in state prisons sanctioned by the regime. Assad’s forces made use of ‘starve or surrender’ tactics, placing entire cities under siege. According to UN agencies, 13-14 million Syrians were either forced to flee the country or were internally displaced within Syria. To counteract the violence rescuers like the White Helmets and civilians like Diala worked to preserve lives and alleviate suffering. Assad’s regime was overthrown in 2024 by the rebel group Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) which took Damascus and while many Syrians have returned to their homeland, the situation there remains fragile.

Diala’s story:

Beginning her career working for the children’s animated TV channel “Spacetoon”, Diala soon realised the power of art and began publishing work with a political message. Openly criticising the Assad regime would have been incredibly dangerous and have immediately flagged Diala to the Mukhabarat [the secret police] who monitored the ‘electronic army’ of activists; using the pseudonym Elvis Presley, Diala was able to safely circulate her work online. She describes being the only activist amongst her artistic circle; in an interview with The New Arab, she revealed “Out of the ten artists I shared a studio with in Damascus, I was the only activist. It was really sad but they were terrified.”

In 2012, after a massacre in Daraa orchestrated by the government in which over 400 civilians were murdered, Diala began signing her work with her name. She explained that she was no longer content to hide behind a pseudonym, feeling that this was “shameful” when others were being arrested and dying in prison. Her series “Leave Us” was inspired by the events in Daraa; her first, signed illustration of a boy who had lost his arm and leg is accompanied by the words “leave my last hand and leave us.” With this work, Diala challenged Assad’s ‘protection’ narrative, showing that the government was not keeping people safe but actively destroying their future. Fear of being arrested because of her political work was partly what motivated her to leave Syria.

It was not the fear of arrest for her activism alone which motivated her flight. She describes an event which brought the reality of the danger all too close. While smuggling medical supplies under the seat of her car, Diala was stopped at a checkpoint. If they had found the medical supplies she was hiding, she would have been killed. The Assad regime declared bringing medical aid to rebel areas was a “terrorist act” and those found with supplies were executed; the Mukhabarat would use temporary checkpoints to catch people. Fortunately for Diala, the soldier was drunk and let her go because she was a “beautiful woman.” The fact that her life had hung on the whim of a drunk soldier made her realise she had to get out. She left Syria, first fleeing to Istanbul, Turkey, and then to Beirut, Lebanon.

In Istanbul, she began production of the children’s magazine Zayton and Zaytonah [Olive and Olivia], an apolitical magazine smuggled into Syria to restore a sense of normalcy. In Lebanon, she found more ways to use her artwork as a force for good; she offered to paint a mural for a woman opening a library for displaced Syrian children. Diala had the idea to do more of this, voluntarily, in refugee camps. She painted murals with children and offered art therapy workshops. She admits that often this was challenging; the children she was working with were scarred from their experiences and often drew pictures of the horrific things they had seen and been through. Diala’s aim was to help them shift their focus towards hope for the future though images featuring constellations and fun cartoon characters that fly through the sky. She wished to provide a break from the dullness of the refugee camps with bright, joyful colours; tents, mud and skies formed a world of grey, mirroring the dire situation the refugees found themselves in. Diala’s murals created a sensory escape.

Before her passport expired, Diala was keen to leave Lebanon. “I didn’t have a good childhood. So, I want to have a good rest of my life” she says in an interview. She found a host family in Pelissanne, France, where she moved after securing a visa. There she was granted the NORA scholarship, a prestigious residency programme designed to support people with refugee status in France, providing a stable environment and links to French artistic networks. In France, Diala found that she could continue her work with refugees without being physically present. Working on canvas, she creates work that can be shipped to Lebanon, continuing to provide hope and escapism for displaced children. Her artistic journey became more personal, moving away from digital tools and street art towards slower canvas work. Her participation in major European exhibitions, such as the Institut du Monde Arabe in Paris solidified her status as a global artist.

Since moving to Europe, Diala has been able to create varied work, much of which explores her experiences and her relationship to her past. In 2023, Diala spent two-month in Rotterdam as part of the INSPIRE Rotterdam Residency which focussed on collective healing from war related trauma. Her project “You Are Not Alone” invites people to connect with their “bodies, memories, emotions, and each other.” It emphasises the way trauma is stored in the body, her art provides a guide to releasing it. One poignant image features a woman, crouched down with a large snail sitting on her head. The snail is a metaphor for the burden which refugees carry, of all that has been left behind, as well as the culture and language; refugees are homeless in the traditional sense but bring with them their entire world. Diala’s artwork is no longer just for children; it touches an audience of all ages.

Diala’s story is one that many refugees resonate with. Her desire to bring aid to those who have been failed by the leaders who should protect them ultimately had to come second to protecting her personal safety. Grappling with survivor’s guilt, she remained committed to helping others, if not in the form of medical supplies, then through emotional healing. Her artwork tells the story of her activism, her humanitarian work, and finally her journey to personal healing, working through somatic trauma alongside others from the refugee community. A survivor of unimaginable hardships, Diala’s dedication and resourcefulness, her continued commitment to hope is testament to the transformative power of art to bridge the gap between trauma and healing.

In this post Harriet highlights the arty refugee experience of Diala Brisly. She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. She also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

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Thirty Years After Genocide: How Rwanda and Bosnia Rebuild Safety, Identity, and Belonging

Introduction

In 1994, genocide devastated Rwanda. A year later, the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina ended after atrocities that included the massacre in Srebrenica. The violence in both places is well documented and internationally recognised. Courts delivered rulings. Memorials were built. Peace agreements were signed.

What receives less attention is what comes after the formal end of violence. Genocide does not only destroy lives; it damages trust, fractures identity, and erodes the basic sense that society is safe. Rebuilding is not only political or economic. It is social and psychological. It is about whether people feel secure in their neighborhoods, whether justice feels credible, and whether younger generations can imagine a future not defined entirely by inherited trauma.

Three decades later, Rwanda and Bosnia offer two distinct, still evolving approaches to recovery. Both have avoided renewed mass violence. Both continue to grapple with the harder task of rebuilding belonging and dignity.

Rwanda: Security, Justice, and National Identity

In Rwanda, the immediate priority after 1994 was restoring order. The government consolidated control, dismantled armed groups, and reestablished state authority. Today, the country is widely perceived as stable. Public security is strong, institutions function, and infrastructure has expanded significantly. For many citizens, daily life feels predictable in ways it did not during years of instability.

From a human needs perspective, restoring physical safety was foundational. Without it, reconciliation and development would have been impossible. But Rwanda’s strategy extended beyond security. Leaders also sought to address the social conditions that had enabled genocide, particularly the politicisation of ethnic identity.

Official discourse emphasises unity. Citizens are encouraged to see themselves first as Rwandan. Public references to ethnic categories are discouraged in political life. The aim is preventive: reduce the divisions that once proved catastrophic. Many Rwandans born after 1994 describe their identity primarily in civic rather than ethnic terms.

Justice became another pillar of rebuilding. Alongside international prosecutions, Rwanda created the Gacaca court system, a community-based process designed to handle the enormous number of genocide-related cases. Survivors and accused perpetrators faced each other in local proceedings. Confession and testimony were central, and reduced sentences were sometimes granted in exchange for truth-telling.

Gacaca remains debated. It was faster and more locally embedded than conventional courts, and it processed a vast number of cases. At the same time, it placed heavy emotional burdens on survivors and did not always meet international standards of due process. Still, it made accountability visible. Justice unfolded within communities rather than at a distance.

Memory in Rwanda is also structured and highly visible. Annual national commemorations mark the genocide, and memorial sites are maintained across the country. Remembrance is framed as a civic responsibility and a safeguard against denial. The message is clear: what happened will not be forgotten.

Yet Rwanda’s centralised model has prompted debate about political space and dissent. Critics argue that reconciliation narratives are shaped largely from above and that political opposition is constrained. Supporters counter that strong state direction has been necessary to preserve stability in a society once pushed to the brink.

Three decades on, Rwanda presents a complex picture. Security is robust. Economic growth has been notable. Women hold a significant share of parliamentary seats. But trauma persists, particularly among survivors who continue to require psychological support. Recovery here has meant prioritising order and unity, even as questions about political openness remain.

Bosnia and Herzegovina: Peace Within Division

Bosnia’s post-war path followed a different logic. The 1995 Dayton Agreement ended the conflict but established a highly decentralised political system. Power is shared among Bosniaks, Croats, and Serbs through a layered structure of entities, cantons, and rotating leadership positions. The design was intended to prevent domination by any one group and to guarantee representation for all.

In its most basic aim, the agreement succeeded. Large-scale violence has not resumed. International peacekeeping forces gradually reduced their presence as conditions stabilised. For many citizens, safety now means the absence of war and the predictability of daily life.

But the same framework that preserves peace also reinforces division. Ethnic identity remains embedded in political institutions. In some areas, students from different communities attend separate classes, sometimes within the same building. Historical narratives can vary depending on which curriculum they are taught.

Unlike Rwanda’s effort to minimise ethnic categories, Bosnia’s system formalises them. Identity is not sidelined; it is built into the state. This creates a paradox. The structure protects groups from marginalisation, but it can also limit the development of a cohesive national identity.

Justice for war crimes has taken place largely through international and national courts. Convictions related to atrocities, including those committed in Srebrenica, established legal recognition and accountability. Yet acknowledgment at the community level is uneven. Competing narratives about responsibility and victimhood persist in some regions.

Memorialisation reflects this fragmentation. Commemorations and memorial sites exist, but they are often associated with specific communities rather than a shared national narrative. Memory is present, but it is plural and sometimes contested.

At the local level, however, daily life is often more integrated than political discourse suggests. In mixed urban areas, people share workplaces, universities, and social spaces. Civil society groups promote interethnic dialogue and youth initiatives aimed at building trust. Many young Bosnians express greater frustration with economic stagnation and political gridlock than with neighboring communities.

This generational dimension is significant. Those born after the war did not experience the violence directly, though they inherit its memory through family stories and public commemorations. For some, identity is flexible and evolving. For others, it remains closely tied to group affiliation. High rates of emigration suggest that economic opportunity and personal autonomy weigh heavily in how young people assess their future.

Bosnia’s recovery has therefore focused on sustaining coexistence within a divided political framework. It manages differences rather than attempting to dissolve it. Peace here is pragmatic, not transformative.

Shared Patterns, Diverging Strategies

Both Rwanda and Bosnia show that rebuilding begins with restoring security. Without physical safety, deeper recovery cannot take hold. The absence of renewed mass violence over three decades is itself a significant achievement.

Both also demonstrate that justice matters beyond punishment. Whether through Rwanda’s community-based Gacaca courts or Bosnia’s reliance on international tribunals, formal acknowledgment of wrongdoing helps restore dignity and affirm truth. Yet neither approach fully resolves trauma or erases contested narratives.

The sharpest contrast lies in identity reconstruction. Rwanda has pursued national unity and reduced the public salience of ethnicity. Bosnia has institutionalised ethnic pluralism as a safeguard against renewed conflict. Each strategy responds to the same fear of recurrence, but through opposite means.

In both societies, trauma extends beyond the generation that experienced the violence directly. Psychological research suggests that fear, grief, and silence can shape families and collective memory for decades. Recovery is not confined to treaties or courtrooms. It unfolds in classrooms, neighborhoods, and homes.

Conclusion

Thirty years is long enough for new institutions to take root and for children born after violence to reach adulthood. It is not long enough to erase the social and psychological consequences of genocide.

Rwanda and Bosnia do not offer a single template for recovery. Instead, they reveal how rebuilding after mass violence is uneven, contested, and deeply human. It requires creating conditions in which people feel safe enough to participate in public life, to express identity without fear, and to imagine a future not wholly defined by trauma.

Genocide ends as an event. Its aftermath becomes part of everyday life. The true measure of recovery is not the absence of tension, but the presence of enough stability, recognition, and agency that ordinary life can continue without the threat of violence returning.

In this episode Luuk discusses the post conflict experience of Bosnia and Rwanda. What the situation on the ground is decades down the road with a focus on Safety and Identity. He is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.