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Muriel Ahmarani Jaouich


EIP: Tell us about your Lebanese / Armenian heritage and how it influences your artwork.
MURIEL: As a Canadian artist of Armenian, Egyptian and Lebanese descent, my paintings focus on genealogy, intergenerational trauma and historical violence. In my work, I create a narrative based on the history of my family; one of diaspora, immigration, and genocide. My maternal grandparents are survivors of the Armenian Genocide of 1915-1923. My grandfather lost his parents and thirteen siblings, who were massacred in 1915 in Mardin, Turkey. He and one brother survived and were exiled to Alexandria, Egypt, though their family originally came from Baghdad, Iraq. My grandmother also lost her parents and sister in Mardin, Turkey. She fled by boat and was exiled to Alexandria, where she lived in an Armenian orphanage. On my father’s side, my grandfather’s side have been in Alexandria, Egypt, since the late 1800s, though the family originally comes from Deir El Amar in Lebanon. On my grandmother’s side, there is also Syrian and Coptic Egyptian heritage in my paternal lineage.
My research is based on oral histories, photographic archives and objects bequeathed to me. I draw on archival records of family albums, memories, secret histories, gaps, silences or moments shared through oral interviews. I become a receptacle. I transform this knowledge and create narratives using memory and imagination. When stories and memories are subjected to time, the narratives become blurred, on the borderline between reality and fiction. My images serve as metaphors for the impact of intergenerational trauma. Decolonizing is about recognizing and naming the worldview forced, reinforced, and enforced by this colonial experiment and picking up the teachings and practices of our ancestors. The work speaks of ancestral grief. Such grief work invites an ongoing practice of going deep, caring, and listening. Dealing with the undigested anguish of our ancestors frees us to live our present lives. In turn, it can also relieve ancestral suffering in the other world.
EIP: What did the very beginning of your artist journey look like?
MURIEL: Pursuing an artistic path is something I could never have imagined, especially with parents who immigrated from Lebanon and Egypt and had to rebuild their lives from the ground up. I was raised to follow a traditional path, becoming either a doctor or dentist. Instead, I ended up working for companies in Silicon Valley and later for nonprofits like UNICEF. But something always felt off. Due to my own trauma and a lot of dissociation, it took a long time to reconnect and find my path. Therapy and incredible meditation teachers like Daryl Lynn Ross and Pascal Auclair were instrumental in that journey. I never gave up on searching for something that resonated more deeply, and slowly, it was revealed to me. My spiritual practice is deeply intertwined with my art; they support and enhance each other in a symbiotic way. Coming from a faith-oriented background on my maternal side, I grew up attending Armenian church every Sunday. Alongside this, I pursued my own spiritual exploration by studying Buddhist philosophy and participating in extensive meditation retreats,
including one six-week retreat in silence. These experiences have profoundly shaped my worldview and way of life. My paintings are an extension of my sensitivity, living through me as I create. I feel profoundly guided and supported by my ancestors during the painting process.
EIP: How would you compare your artwork from when you just started to your work in the present moment? How did the Egyptian influence in your current works come about?
MURIEL: The real turning point came when I embarked on my MFA journey. Here’s how it unfolded…
At the start, my focus was on understanding and reconstructing the historical memory of the Armenian genocide through both personal and collective perspectives. I wanted my artistic research to generate new forms of knowledge. Through painting, I explored the potential of rebuilding personal and collective memory around the traumatic aftermath of the genocide. I also aimed for the work to play a political role, using humor to tell an alternative narrative rooted in my own life and field experiences.
I engaged in oral history-based research, delving into matrilineal stories of mothers and daughters within the context of family histories. My mother’s oral narratives became a gateway to using the familiar as a tool for uncovering the unknown. I sought to link personal and familiar experiences to something broader—collective, social, and far beyond my individual story. My mother, Anahid, shares her name with the Armenian goddess of fertility, healing, wisdom, and water. This prompted me to ask: Does the study of goddesses in Armenian mythology and other myths help us understand the dynamics between women, power, and spirituality? What layers of memory and patriarchal violence can be uncovered and discussed?
My iconography evolved dramatically in my second year, during what I call the “summer of sorrows” in 2021. My father became seriously ill and lost the ability to speak. His voice’s disappearance urged me to understand where he came from. His slow decline stirred a deep need within me to integrate my Egyptian heritage into my work. From an early age, I was exposed to Ancient Egyptian art, including painting, sculpture, and papyrus drawings, through my paternal grandparents who were still living in Alexandria during my childhood. I also realized that Alexandria, Egypt was where my maternal grandparents sought exile from Mardin. Egyptian iconography became my safe space, shaping the next series of paintings.
My Armenian-Egyptian-Lebanese heritage, along with the long- standing conflicts between the West and the Middle East, deeply influence my work. I’m interested in critiquing the ongoing forces of colonization and highlighting the value of cultural artifacts that have been lost, looted, or destroyed, as well as the human toll of continued violence. I see my paintings as a transformative force, capable of moving us into spaces where we can reclaim our power.

{
"article":
{
"title" : "Muriel Ahmarani Jaouich",
"author" : "Muriel Ahmarani Jaouich",
"category" : "interviews",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/global-resistance-art-muriel",
"date" : "2025-02-04 15:33:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/muriel-3.jpg",
"excerpt" : "",
"content" : "EIP: Tell us about your Lebanese / Armenian heritage and how it influences your artwork.MURIEL: As a Canadian artist of Armenian, Egyptian and Lebanese descent, my paintings focus on genealogy, intergenerational trauma and historical violence. In my work, I create a narrative based on the history of my family; one of diaspora, immigration, and genocide. My maternal grandparents are survivors of the Armenian Genocide of 1915-1923. My grandfather lost his parents and thirteen siblings, who were massacred in 1915 in Mardin, Turkey. He and one brother survived and were exiled to Alexandria, Egypt, though their family originally came from Baghdad, Iraq. My grandmother also lost her parents and sister in Mardin, Turkey. She fled by boat and was exiled to Alexandria, where she lived in an Armenian orphanage. On my father’s side, my grandfather’s side have been in Alexandria, Egypt, since the late 1800s, though the family originally comes from Deir El Amar in Lebanon. On my grandmother’s side, there is also Syrian and Coptic Egyptian heritage in my paternal lineage.My research is based on oral histories, photographic archives and objects bequeathed to me. I draw on archival records of family albums, memories, secret histories, gaps, silences or moments shared through oral interviews. I become a receptacle. I transform this knowledge and create narratives using memory and imagination. When stories and memories are subjected to time, the narratives become blurred, on the borderline between reality and fiction. My images serve as metaphors for the impact of intergenerational trauma. Decolonizing is about recognizing and naming the worldview forced, reinforced, and enforced by this colonial experiment and picking up the teachings and practices of our ancestors. The work speaks of ancestral grief. Such grief work invites an ongoing practice of going deep, caring, and listening. Dealing with the undigested anguish of our ancestors frees us to live our present lives. In turn, it can also relieve ancestral suffering in the other world.EIP: What did the very beginning of your artist journey look like?MURIEL: Pursuing an artistic path is something I could never have imagined, especially with parents who immigrated from Lebanon and Egypt and had to rebuild their lives from the ground up. I was raised to follow a traditional path, becoming either a doctor or dentist. Instead, I ended up working for companies in Silicon Valley and later for nonprofits like UNICEF. But something always felt off. Due to my own trauma and a lot of dissociation, it took a long time to reconnect and find my path. Therapy and incredible meditation teachers like Daryl Lynn Ross and Pascal Auclair were instrumental in that journey. I never gave up on searching for something that resonated more deeply, and slowly, it was revealed to me. My spiritual practice is deeply intertwined with my art; they support and enhance each other in a symbiotic way. Coming from a faith-oriented background on my maternal side, I grew up attending Armenian church every Sunday. Alongside this, I pursued my own spiritual exploration by studying Buddhist philosophy and participating in extensive meditation retreats,including one six-week retreat in silence. These experiences have profoundly shaped my worldview and way of life. My paintings are an extension of my sensitivity, living through me as I create. I feel profoundly guided and supported by my ancestors during the painting process.EIP: How would you compare your artwork from when you just started to your work in the present moment? How did the Egyptian influence in your current works come about?MURIEL: The real turning point came when I embarked on my MFA journey. Here’s how it unfolded…At the start, my focus was on understanding and reconstructing the historical memory of the Armenian genocide through both personal and collective perspectives. I wanted my artistic research to generate new forms of knowledge. Through painting, I explored the potential of rebuilding personal and collective memory around the traumatic aftermath of the genocide. I also aimed for the work to play a political role, using humor to tell an alternative narrative rooted in my own life and field experiences.I engaged in oral history-based research, delving into matrilineal stories of mothers and daughters within the context of family histories. My mother’s oral narratives became a gateway to using the familiar as a tool for uncovering the unknown. I sought to link personal and familiar experiences to something broader—collective, social, and far beyond my individual story. My mother, Anahid, shares her name with the Armenian goddess of fertility, healing, wisdom, and water. This prompted me to ask: Does the study of goddesses in Armenian mythology and other myths help us understand the dynamics between women, power, and spirituality? What layers of memory and patriarchal violence can be uncovered and discussed?My iconography evolved dramatically in my second year, during what I call the “summer of sorrows” in 2021. My father became seriously ill and lost the ability to speak. His voice’s disappearance urged me to understand where he came from. His slow decline stirred a deep need within me to integrate my Egyptian heritage into my work. From an early age, I was exposed to Ancient Egyptian art, including painting, sculpture, and papyrus drawings, through my paternal grandparents who were still living in Alexandria during my childhood. I also realized that Alexandria, Egypt was where my maternal grandparents sought exile from Mardin. Egyptian iconography became my safe space, shaping the next series of paintings.My Armenian-Egyptian-Lebanese heritage, along with the long- standing conflicts between the West and the Middle East, deeply influence my work. I’m interested in critiquing the ongoing forces of colonization and highlighting the value of cultural artifacts that have been lost, looted, or destroyed, as well as the human toll of continued violence. I see my paintings as a transformative force, capable of moving us into spaces where we can reclaim our power."
}
,
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{
"title" : "100+ Years of Genocidal Intent in Palestine",
"author" : "Collis Browne",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/100-years-of-genocidal-intent",
"date" : "2025-10-07 18:01:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/1920-jerusalem.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Every single Israeli prime minister, president, and major Zionist leader has voiced clear intent to erase the Palestinian people from their lands, either by forced expulsion, or military violence. From Herzl and Chaim Weizmann to Ben-Gurion to Netanyahu, the record is not ambiguous:",
"content" : "Every single Israeli prime minister, president, and major Zionist leader has voiced clear intent to erase the Palestinian people from their lands, either by forced expulsion, or military violence. From Herzl and Chaim Weizmann to Ben-Gurion to Netanyahu, the record is not ambiguous:{% for person in site.data.genocidalquotes %}{{ person.name }}{% if person.title %}<p class=\"title-xs\">{{ person.title }}</p>{% endif %}{% for quote in person.quotes %}“{{ quote.text }}”{% if quote.source %}— {{ quote.source }}{% endif %}{% endfor %}{% endfor %}"
}
,
{
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"author" : "Cheb Gado",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/dignity-before-stadiums",
"date" : "2025-10-02 09:08:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Morocco_GenZ.jpg",
"excerpt" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.",
"content" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.One of the sharpest contradictions fueling the protests was the billions poured into World Cup-related preparations, while ordinary citizens remained marginalized when it came to healthcare and education.This awareness quickly turned into chants and slogans echoing through the streets: “Dignity begins with schools and hospitals, not with putting on a show for the world.”What set this movement apart was not only its presence on the streets, but also the way it reinvented protest itself:Live filming: Phone cameras revealed events moment by moment, exposing abuses instantly.Memes and satire: A powerful weapon to dismantle authority’s aura, turning complex political discourse into viral, shareable content.Decentralized networks: No leader, no party, just small, fast-moving groups connected online, able to appear and disappear with agility.This generation doesn’t believe in grand speeches or delayed promises. They demand change here and now. Moving seamlessly between the physical and digital realms, they turn the street into a stage of revolt, and Instagram Live into an alternative media outlet.What’s happening in Morocco strongly recalls the Arab Spring of 2011, when young people flooded the streets with the same passion and spontaneity, armed only with belief in their power to spark change. But Gen Z added their own twist, digital tools, meme culture, and the pace of a hyper-connected world.Morocco’s Gen Z uprising is not just another protest, but a living experiment in how a digital generation can redefine politics itself. The spark may fade, but the mark it leaves on young people’s collective consciousness cannot be erased.Photo credits: Mosa’ab Elshamy, Zacaria Garcia, Abdel Majid Bizouat, Marouane Beslem"
}
,
{
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"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/a-shutdown-exposes-how-fragile-us-governance-really-is",
"date" : "2025-10-01 22:13:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Gov_ShutDown.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.",
"content" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.Shutdowns don’t mean the government stops functioning. They mean millions of federal workers are asked to keep the system running without pay. Air traffic controllers, border patrol agents, food inspectors — people whose jobs underpin both public safety and economic life — are told their labor matters, but their livelihoods don’t. People have to pay the price of bad bureaucracy in the world’s most powerful country, if governance is stalled, workers must pay with their salaries and their groceries.In 1995 and 1996, clashes between President Bill Clinton and House Speaker Newt Gingrich triggered two shutdowns totaling 27 days. In 2013, a 16-day standoff over the Affordable Care Act furloughed 850,000 workers. And in 2018–2019, the longest shutdown in U.S. history stretched 35 days, as President Trump refused to reopen the government without funding for a border wall. That impasse left 800,000 federal employees without paychecks and cost the U.S. economy an estimated $11 billion — $3 billion of it permanently lost.More troubling is what happens when crises strike during shutdowns. The United States is living in an age of accelerating climate disasters: historic floods in Vermont, wildfire smoke choking New York, hurricanes pounding Florida. These emergencies do not pause while Congress fights over budgets. Yet a shutdown means furloughed NOAA meteorologists, suspended EPA enforcement, and delayed FEMA programs. In the most climate-vulnerable decade of our lifetimes, we are choosing paralysis over preparedness.This vulnerability didn’t emerge overnight. For decades, the American state has been hollowed out under the logic of austerity and privatization, while military spending has remained sacrosanct. That imbalance is why budgets collapse under the weight of endless resources for war abroad, too few for resilience at home.Shutdowns send a dangerous message. They normalize instability. They tell workers they are disposable. They make clear that in our system, climate resilience and public health aren’t pillars of our democracy but rather insignificant in the face of power and greed. And each time the government closes, it becomes easier to imagine a future where this isn’t the exception but the rule.The United States cannot afford to keep running on shutdown politics. The climate crisis, economic inequality, and the challenges of sustaining democracy itself demand continuity, not collapse. We need a politics that treats stability and resilience not as partisan victories, but as basic commitments to one another. Otherwise, the real shutdown isn’t just of the government — it’s of democracy itself."
}
]
}