“All war is a symptom of man’s failure as a thinking animal.” – John Steinbeck
(American novelist, 1902–1968)
The shockwaves of war extend far beyond the battlefield. In the past days and weeks, as violence flared between Israel and its adversaries, those shockwaves have rippled through the cultural psyche of both Iranians and Israelis. These are semiotic shockwaves – waves of meaning and emotion – that find expression in art, music, clothing, and symbols. Faced with real-time trauma, artists and designers in Tehran and Tel Aviv alike have been processing unfathomable pain through creativity, turning destruction into dialogue. Rather than taking sides, their works reveal a shared humanity: a cosmopolitan yearning for peace in a time of carnage.
On the streets of Tel Aviv, murals and spontaneous artworks have blossomed in response to war. Addam Yekutieli, an Israeli artist, describes how creating art carves out a refuge amid chaos: “if art can function as something…it’s to create a space for reflection and reassessing and trying to dissect and process and understand” . In the wake of the October 7 attacks and the ensuing war, Israeli cultural hubs filled with paintings, songs, and dances born from heartbreak. In Tel Aviv’s “Hostages’ Square,” protesters regularly gather beneath banners and artwork demanding the release of captives, illustrating how public art became interwoven with public outcry . Across social media too, a flood of creative expression has helped people grieve and rage safely. Each sketch, song or poem is a fragment of collective processing – a small, symbolic act of resistance against the senselessness of violence.
Art institutions in Israel have also mobilized to confront the trauma of war head-on. Curators rapidly organized powerful exhibitions like “Second Draft,” “Kuma,” and “War Decorations,” showcasing deeply personal works created in the shadow of recent conflict . One features haunting landscapes drawn by a soldier-turned-artist to evoke “war’s quiet tension,” another preserves the final works of an artist killed in battle, and a third presents vivid canvases painted by a survivor of the October 7 massacre – images that juxtapose beauty with fear . The aim of these exhibits is not mere aesthetic display, but catharsis. “Curators emphasize the transformative role of art in helping individuals and communities heal,” with these shows feeding national conversations about war, memory and resilience . In gallery spaces from Jerusalem to Haifa, the walls speak of pain and perseverance. The very act of exhibiting these works is a defiant statement that the human spirit will respond to trauma not only with tears, but with creation.
That spirit of creation in extremis is something Iranians profoundly understand as well. Iran is no stranger to war’s trauma – the eight-year Iran–Iraq War (1980–88) left a generation scarred by loss. The impact of that conflict still bleeds into Iranian art today. For example, the late multimedia artist Sadegh Tirafkan, who as a teenager fought on the frontlines, admitted “I lost all my friends during that time… At midnight I have dreams about that” . His early works were suffused with the sadness and despair of war, often resembling funeral processions – commentaries on Iran’s cultural obsession with martyrdom and heartfelt tributes to fallen comrades . In one series of photographs, Tirafkan even shrouded himself in fabrics adorned with symbols of Shi’a Islam and ancient Persian history, like a ghost wandering a bleak landscape of memory. His art, like that of many Iranian creators, became an exorcism of trauma – a way to channel nightmares into visual narratives. “People ask me, ‘Why are your works sometimes so lonely, so depressed?’” Tirafkan said. “It’s because I was born here… Here, life is not easy.” . In those words lies a truth connecting Tehran to Tel Aviv: life amid constant threat etches wounds in the soul, and art can be a salve.
Despite heavy censorship and political pressures, Iranian artists have a long tradition of speaking in the subtle language of symbols to address pain. From the classical poets like Rumi and Hafez who wove social critique into verse, to contemporary painters who hide commentary in calligraphy, Iranians have learned to express truth under oppressive limits. “If you look at our history… [our great poets] were never given a chance to write about whatever they wanted… Iranians just deal with that,” notes one veteran Iranian artist, reflecting on how adversity has always compelled art in Persia . This heritage of indirect resistance lives on in modern Iran. In late 2022, when the “Woman, Life, Freedom” uprising erupted after the death of Mahsa Amini, a wave of protest art swept the nation. Graffiti, posters, songs, and dances became outlets for a population’s pent-up trauma. New works by artists like Minoo Emami consciously set out to “transform the trauma of war and oppression into objects of beauty and hope.” In a recent exhibition in Connecticut, Emami showcased two decades of art – from antiwar paintings to sculptures – culminating in pieces responding to Iran’s women’s rights movement, all emphasizing resistance and resilience . Even without explicitly naming the conflicts, Iranian art often throbs with the aftershocks of war and political violence, transmuting suffering into soothing or startling imagery that forces viewers to confront what is happening.
This phenomenon is not confined to studio walls or galleries. In Tehran, as war raged in Gaza, Iranian artists took to the streets – or rather, to the museum – in solidarity with victims of distant conflict. Dozens of painters, calligraphers and caricaturists gathered at Tehran’s Museum of Contemporary Art in a public show of support for the beleaguered civilians of Gaza . They sketched children under bombardment and weeping mothers; they inked slogans of unity and freedom. Such images, displayed openly in Iran’s capital, are imbued with political meaning: they serve as both empathy and protest, signaling that the Iranian people’s creative community shares in the grief of Gazans. This artistic solidarity campaign was a non-violent echo of Iran’s official stance against Israel’s actions – an attempt to process the horror of war next door by wielding brushes instead of bullets. Likewise, Iranian cultural authorities announced contests for paintings and cartoons on themes of “genocide” and resistance, reviving a long tradition of using art contests to spotlight what they perceive as injustice. The tone of some of this state-sponsored art is decidedly propagandistic, but at its core is a genuine popular anguish at seeing yet another human catastrophe unfold. Through their drawings and canvases, Iranians effectively cry out: no more blood, no more suffering. Even as their own government beats war drums, many Iranian artists instinctively respond to war’s carnage with pleas for humanity.
If the language of Iranian war art is often one of metaphor and mourning, in Israel the artistic response has been equally visceral but sometimes more overt. Consider the realm of fashion – a seemingly unlikely theater for grappling with trauma, yet history shows that conflict can revolutionize what people wear. One Israeli fashion researcher observes that “Every time there is a war, fashion is the first thing that changes” . Indeed, since the Hamas attacks of Oct. 7 and the subsequent war, Israel’s designers have actively sought ways to “wear the war” – not to promote violence, but to bear its pain and armor the spirit with hope . In one striking example, war survivors themselves became models in a historic photoshoot organized in Jerusalem. Noam Ben David, a young woman who was shot and wounded by terrorists at the Supernova music festival, donned a most unexpected gown for the camera. **** Noam stands in the shadow of an ancient stone citadel, wearing an Israel Defense Forces-inspired wedding dress – olive-green elements woven into white bridal fabric. The design by Oshrat Mishal boldly transforms a symbol of war (an IDF uniform) into a symbol of life and renewal (a wedding gown). Her posture is graceful yet defiant: a bride of war, marrying sorrow to hope. In pairing a military aesthetic with the ritual attire of love, this image embodies resilience. The photoshoot, held at the Tower of David Museum in August 2024, featured several survivors and former hostages of the October 7 attack modeling couture by Israeli designers. Each garment was imbued with symbolism. One haute couture wedding gown was even dedicated to “Operation Swords of Iron,” Israel’s name for the war, and was modeled by a bride-to-be whose fiancé had been killed in the violence . Such projects blur the line between fashion and memorial. They suggest that to “dress up again” after atrocity is an act of courage – a way to declare that joy and normalcy will return, that the human spirit will not stay crushed.
Fashion in wartime Israel has carried explicit messages as well. Designers large and small have launched special collections integrating national symbols, both to raise morale and funds for those affected . The iconic yellow ribbon – symbol of solidarity with captives – was blown up into a flowing evening gown by one designer and worn at the Grammy Awards by an American-Israeli singer, Montana Tucker . Another dramatic piece made global headlines when Israeli socialite Hofit Golan appeared at an Oscars after-party in a custom Yaniv Persy gown that was nothing short of a walking canvas: it featured the names of Israeli communities ravaged on Oct. 7, streaked with blood-red splatters and emblazoned with a large Star of David, all topped by a long tulle train styled like a fusion of a Jewish prayer shawl and a Palestinian keffiyeh – an artistic plea for coexistence . Amid the glitter of Hollywood, the dress was arresting and incongruous: a beautiful garment filled with ugly truths, forcing onlookers to remember the massacres even in the midst of celebration. Fashion designer Meital Peleg Mizrachi notes that while some international brands cynically appropriate war motifs as mere trends, Israeli designers have responded “in a kinder and gentler way,” truly trying to help rather than profit . Many brands in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem directed proceeds from special war-inspired items to charity. For instance, the popular clothing company Renuar released a simple black-and-white T-shirt emblazoned with the word “ALIVE” – replicating a tattoo on the hand of a young Israeli held hostage in Gaza . All profits went to support the families of hostages. The shirt’s bold block lettering, “ALIVE,” became both a prayer and protest: a declaration that these missing people are alive in memory and must be returned, and a wider affirmation of life in the face of death. Thousands of Israelis proudly wore it, literally wearing their hope on their sleeves.
Strikingly, the use of couture and art-as-protest is not unique to one side of this conflict. In the diaspora, Iranian and Israeli creatives have been turning high-profile cultural events into platforms for activism – often in uncannily parallel ways. At the 95th Academy Awards in 2023, Iranian-born actress Shohreh Aghdashloo graced the red carpet in a flowing black-and-white gown custom-made by Christian Siriano. It was no ordinary dress: across the overskirt, in golden Persian calligraphy, were embroidered the words “Women, Life, Freedom,” the rallying slogan of Iran’s protest movement, alongside the names of Mahsa Amini and other women slain by Iran’s security forces . Aghdashloo, who fled Iran decades ago, used Hollywood’s spotlight to honor the martyrs of her homeland’s struggle for liberty. “This was a chance to take the case of the Iranian freedom fighters to the ultimate platform,” she said, explaining that she wanted the world to remember those “whose lives ended far too early in the hope of freedom” . That same awards season, an Israeli designer was preparing the aforementioned gown for Hofit Golan – each side, in its own pain, turning fashion into a billboard of remembrance. And a few weeks earlier at the Golden Globes, Iranian-American actress Sepideh Moafi walked the carpet in a sleek black dress adorned with a single red poppy flower at the hip. The poppy, a symbol of both remembrance and opium-induced dreams, was hand-painted by artist Milad Ahmadi and inscribed with the names of protesters killed in Iran, spiraling out on its petals . “I wish I never had to write these names down… They were real humans,” the artist lamented on social media . “The element of hope is integral to my work – it’s all we have,” Ahmadi added, describing how he infused the poppy with a “glimmer of hope” even as it memorialized the dead . This fusion of fine art and apparel – what Ahmadi calls “fashion adjacent” protest art – demonstrates how Iranians are innovating new ways to ensure the world does not look away from their trauma . Meanwhile, Israeli voices in the fashion world have similarly sought global attention: from New York to Paris, Israeli models and their allies have incorporated symbols like the Israeli flag or dove of peace into runway shows and magazine covers, insisting that their tragedy, too, must not be forgotten amidst geopolitical debates. In both the Iranian and Israeli diasporas, there is a palpable sense that culture must speak when politics fails – that a dress, a song, or a painting might cut through the noise and touch hearts where diplomatic statements fall flat.
Perhaps the most inspiring illustration of art’s power to bridge the bitter divide is the story of Hooman Khalili. Khalili is an Iranian-born artist who fled his country as a child and eventually settled in the United States. In 2024, moved by the Mahsa Amini protests and their resonance with people around the world, Khalili undertook a bold project: he traveled to Israel – a nation officially enemy to Iran’s regime – and painted murals across Israeli cities celebrating the courage of Iranian women and the kinship between two ancient peoples. Over the past year he has created ten large murals on walls from Jerusalem to Haifa, each honoring women who were murdered by Iran’s theocratic regime . In one mural, the face of Mahsa Amini is painted alongside that of Shirel Haim Pour, a 20-year-old Israeli soldier (of Iranian Jewish descent) who was killed by Hamas terrorists – linking their fates in sorrow and solidarity . Another mural carries the message “Esthers of the world, rise up,” invoking the ancient Persian Queen Esther – a savior of the Jews in biblical lore – as a symbol of unity between Persians and Jews . **** A vibrant mural in Netanya, Israel, painted by Khalili, depicts a young woman with flowing hair and a crown of flowers. Beside her, bold text in English, Hebrew, and Persian calls out: “Esthers of the world, rise up.” The artwork commemorates the bravery of Iranian women protesting tyranny, while subtly recalling the biblical Esther who bridged the two cultures. Israeli passersby pause to absorb the image – an Iranian hand has left a mark of hope on their city’s wall. These murals have been met with overwhelmingly positive responses in Israel, and even people inside Iran have sent messages of encouragement to Khalili . It is a profound sight: an Iranian and Israeli collaboration in spirit, if not in literal brushstrokes (Khalili designs the murals which local Israeli artists then help paint) . Through public art, he has built a human connection where political ties are severed – highlighting what he calls the “ancient bond” between the two peoples and their shared fight against oppression and terror . Khalili’s work suggests that beneath the posturing of governments, ordinary Iranians and Israelis have much in common. They bleed from similar wounds, and dream of a time when daughters in both Tehran and Tel Aviv can live free of fear. His paintings on Israeli walls are like messages in a bottle from one traumatized society to another: we see your pain, and you see ours, and perhaps we can heal together.
In psychological terms, what we are witnessing is a form of collective therapy through art. “Utilizing art to process trauma is a timeless tradition,” as one arts advocate puts it, “and one that is widely used today from hospitals to schools and beyond.” Across cultures and eras, when faced with trauma humans have turned to creativity – be it storytelling, painting, or dressing the body in ritual garb – as a way to make sense of the senseless. What’s remarkable in this moment is how parallel the responses have been in two societies often portrayed as irreconcilable foes. Israelis and Iranians are telling very similar human stories through art: stories of mourning loved ones, of anger at violence, of longing for normal life, of pride in identity, and pleas for peace. A Palestinian artist from Ramallah, Rana Samara, recently noted that in times of extreme stress people often gravitate to dark colors – yet she found herself painting in explosive neon pinks and reds as war raged in Gaza . “At first look, it’s an attractive, bright picture,” she says of one work composed of children’s images and a piggy bank, “but when you get close…it’s the tank” . That observation could apply to many of these artistic creations: they draw us in with beauty or intrigue, only to confront us with the harsh reality underneath. The semiotic shockwave hits us: a piggy bank that hides a tank; a glamorous gown that carries names of the dead; a mural of a smiling woman that signifies martyrdom. Each symbol forces recognition of trauma that might otherwise be too vast, too political, or too abstract to grasp. In turn, that recognition breeds empathy. We begin to see the other side not as an other, but as fellow humans coping with heartbreak.
In activist circles around the world, these cultural expressions from Iran and Israel have not gone unnoticed. They have started to inspire a transnational movement of artists against war. In New York, exiled Iranian and Israeli artists have shared stages and gallery space, jointly declaring through their works that enough is enough – no more war. They understand instinctively what John Steinbeck observed decades ago: that war represents a failure of the human imagination. If we were thinking animals, truly rational and empathetic, would we still send young people to kill each other? Art tries to succeed where pure rationality failed – by sparking emotion and reflection that can reignite our dimmed imaginations. It’s telling that even as censors and extremists try to silence voices (be it Iranian authorities arresting musicians or Israeli radicals threatening peace activists), the art only grows louder in symbolism. Murals, songs and fashions become, in their quiet way, shouts for peace.
Ultimately, the profusion of art and fashion arising from the Iran-Israel tinderbox is a reminder that in every war, there are humans dreaming beyond the binaries. An Israeli mother painting to cope with her grief is not so different from an Iranian mother sewing a protest banner for her lost child. Both are refusing to let horror have the final word. Both are asserting, through creativity, that life must carry on and that some meaning can be salvaged from the ruins. These works are seeds of a possible future culture – one that views war not as glory or destiny, but as a shameful lapse of reason. In the galleries of Jerusalem and the graffiti’d walls of Tehran, a mysterious foresight glimmers: perhaps the artists, in their empathy and anguish, are sketching the outlines of a new movement, one that transcends borders. A movement that recognizes that all war is a failure and that our shared humanity is the price of that failure. Their message, expressed in pigments and textiles, is subtly revolutionary: we must imagine each other’s pain, and only then can we imagine a path to peace.
In the end, these semiotic shockwaves – the paintings, the songs, the dresses, the murals – reverberate with a common plea. They whisper (and sometimes scream) that the people of Iran, Israel, and everywhere in between deserve to live without the trauma of falling bombs and shattering nights. Through art, they are processing the unprocessable, bearing witness to loss while daring to hope for healing. If war is the failure of us as thinking animals, then let these creations be evidence of our refusal to stop thinking and feeling. The artist’s canvas, the designer’s fabric, the singer’s voice – all have become weapons of the weak and the wounded, waging an aesthetic insurgency against the ugliness of war. In the mosaic of murals and the couture of resistance, one can discern the faint outline of peace. Each brushstroke and stitch is a small act of faith that one day, maybe, the shockwaves will cease – and in their place, a calm will settle, colored by the hard-earned understanding that we are, all of us, human.