The first Gaza Biennial has arrived in New York as what organizers describe as "a tremendous cry for humanity," showcasing the work of 25 artists from Gaza who continue creating art amid unprecedented devastation. The exhibition was displayed in its full version at Brooklyn's nonprofit art space Recess through this past Sunday, with an abbreviated version continuing from September 18 until December 20. Gallery attendants thoughtfully provide tissue boxes for visitors, acknowledging the emotional weight of the artworks on display.

The biennial features perspectives on nearly two years of ongoing conflict, expressed through paintings, video installations, drawings, and both oral and written testimonies from artists who mostly remain in the besieged Gaza Strip. Notably, the exhibition is hosted in an alternative space rather than a mainstream museum, which carries particular significance given allegations of anti-Palestine censorship faced by major New York institutions such as the Whitney Museum.

Conceived in April 2024 in Palestine by Gazan artists, the Gaza Biennial was developed throughout the ongoing war in collaboration with the Forbidden Museum of Jabal Al Risan. Before reaching Brooklyn, the biennial was presented in 17 pavilions—or "jinnahs," meaning branches or wings—across the globe, reflecting the diasporic reality of Palestinians following Israeli occupation. Unable to be hosted in Gaza itself, the biennial's displaced model mirrors the displacement experienced by Gazans, with artworks presented "ex situ," or removed from their natural setting.

These powerful works were created under extraordinary circumstances—in rubble, under fire, and in makeshift tents—serving as testaments to what organizers call "the mundane miracle of survival." Visitors have extensive opportunities to hear directly from the artists through printed transcripts of interviews and wall texts that include personal messages from creators reflecting on their practice and its context.

Journalist Emad Badwan's short film "Live Broadcast" (2025) chronicles the daily struggles faced by reporters in Gaza, from searching for internet connections to waiting in lines for basic necessities that may never arrive, all while anticipating the next drone strike. The Watson Institute for International and Public Affairs' Costs of War project reported this year that at least 220 journalists have been killed in Gaza in less than two years—more than the combined deaths of journalists in conflicts in Vietnam, Yugoslavia, Afghanistan, and both World Wars.

Most of Badwan's film lacks a conventional climax, instead showing neighbors waiting for working bathrooms and sitting by rubble as informal salesmen call out cigarettes for sale. Yet the horrific context elevates each frame to historic importance. "I choose to tell the story of how a person is not a number," explains painter Aya Juha in an interview shown on screens near "Live Broadcast." She continues, "The war resulted in a huge number of martyrs, a huge number of prisoners, a huge number of injuries. The world outside treats these horrors as numbers."

The exhibition's figurative artworks make it impossible to reduce the human cost to mere statistics. Ghanem Alden's video installation "The Rocket and the Carrot" (2025) presents a sharp satire of colonial diplomatic approaches that simultaneously offer threats and rewards. In the gallery, carrots dangle above a symbolic refugee camp, while photographs of meager meals and necessities gathered by Gazans are displayed on adjacent walls. Alden compares the carrots to humanitarian aid that approximately 2,400 Gazans have died attempting to collect. A screen above a collection of burlap, nylon, and pots shows video of intense eyes staring back at viewers, who are invited to literally take a carrot home in gift bags.

Such works provide crucial insight into daily life in Gaza, filling gaps left by the prolonged media blackout that has made firsthand reporting extremely difficult. Conditions reportedly continue to worsen daily. Earlier this month, Israel intensified its military assault on the Gaza Strip, which the Government Media Office in Gaza condemned as "systematic bombing of civilian structures, with extermination and forced displacement as the aim." According to the Palestinian Ministry of Health, Israeli forces have killed nearly 65,000 Palestinians and injured more than 164,000.

Eyewitness accounts accompany many artworks, illuminating ground-level realities in Gaza and what survival requires. The exhibition provides New York audiences with an unprecedented glimpse into a new normal for internationally and regionally renowned artists who now must sacrifice and scrounge for basic supplies like pens, paints, canvas, and paper.

The ongoing debate about whether art can enact change in the world has intensified since the deadly events of October 7, 2023. However, the Gaza Biennial challenges this perspective entirely, suggesting that rather than placing the burden on artists to inspire Western empathy, we should question why the West requires photographs, drawings, and films of bleeding children to motivate action. The soul-saving potential of art is perhaps best demonstrated by the simple fact that artists in Gaza continue to create despite everything.

Taking shelter in a garage converted into a studio, artist Osama Husein Al Naqqa recreated scenes of both the dead and living in Gaza as digital drawings on his phone, using his finger as a pencil. "During displacement and ethnic cleansing, your ID card becomes a decisive factor—it can mean safe passage, detention, or death," he writes beneath his work "Life or Death Card" (2024). Nearby sits Suhail Salem's original bound notebook, transported to the exhibition under the title "A Call for Help" (2025).

Salem, a faculty member in the art department at Al-Aquar University, has filled the notebook's pages with expressionistic ink drawings of the people and rubble he observes or dreams about. "It was the most brutal when I was forced to walk over the bodies of martyrs during the displacement," he writes. "My sketches were quick, chaotic, with no room for calm." Salem concludes with profound insight: "I believe that an artwork is created in its circumstances, and it's more than just distributing color and empty spaces. It's a collection of emotions that I express in miniature form about my condition, my aspirations, my pain, and my hopes."