IN CONVERSATION
WITH ALINA
Alina El Assadi is an artist born in Kyiv, Ukraine, to a Ukrainian-Palestinian family. In our conversation, Alina reflects on her experiences living in different countries, the process of identity formation, and the influence of both Ukrainian and Arabic cultures on her life. As an artist, she channels these reflections into her work, and sheds light on the shared challenges faced by Ukraine and Palestine, using her work to foster solidarity and raise awareness.
15 July, 2024
Pictures by Daria Viashchenko
Tozhsamist: Can you tell us a bit about your background and where your parents are from?
Alina: My mother is from Ukraine, specifically Beregovo in the Zakarpattya region, near the Hungarian border. Her family moved to Kyiv when she was around 2-3 years old, and she lived there until she met my father.
My father is Palestinian, born in Qatar to Palestinian parents. His mother is from Hittin in Tiberias, and his father is from Dar Al Assad, both in northern Palestine. After the events of 1948, they became Palestinian-Lebanese refugees and eventually migrated to Qatar.
T: What led to your father being in Ukraine?
A: My father moved to Ukraine for his studies. After my sister and I were born, my parents tried to settle in Qatar, but it didn't work out. So, my mother returned to Ukraine with us until my father found a job in the United Arab Emirates. When I was about 7 or 8, we relocated to Sharjah, where we've lived ever since, with summer visits to Ukraine almost every year.
T: I'd love to hear more about your Palestinian heritage and family background. Could you share some insights?
A: My grandmother was born in Hittin, Palestine, 8 km northwest of Tiberias, and my grandfather is from Dar Al Assad,
18 km from Acre. During Al Nakba in 1948, my father's grandfather, his brother, and their families took refuge in a cave for four days amidst the invasion. Afterward, my great-grandfather suggested temporarily moving to Lebanon until it was safe to return, while his brother chose to go back to the city.
Those who went to Lebanon, including my great-grandfather and half of the family, were unable to return like many other Palestinians denied the right to return when Israel was established. They settled in refugee camps in Lebanon, living in tents with limited job opportunities, gradually realizing their displacement would be long-term.
In 1978 and 1982, Israeli attacks on Lebanon further displaced my family, prompting them to move to Qatar in search of stability. My father was born and raised in Qatar.
Today, my father’s family is scattered across the globe, with relatives in Palestine, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, Libya, America, and elsewhere.
T: What about your childhood? How was it?
A: I was born in Kyiv and spent my early childhood there before we moved to Mykolaiv, where my father began working with my maternal grandfather in agriculture. My kindergarten and first year of school were in Mykolaiv, a time when I never questioned my identity or felt different from other children. Everything changed when we relocated to Qatar during my second year of primary school to live with my dad's family. Back then, Qatar lacked diversity, and I was the only child in my class who didn’t speak Arabic.
In year three, we returned to Ukraine, settling back in Kyiv, where I continued my education. I am immensely grateful for this experience, as it ensured my Ukrainian language skills developed and remained strong. My sister, who didn't attend Ukrainian school or spend as much time there during childhood, has a lower proficiency in Ukrainian as a result.
T: How these relocations have impacted your life?
A: After returning to Ukraine from Qatar, I discovered that some saw me as a foreigner. In third grade, a close friend expressed excitement about meeting a new foreign student who had come from abroad, which struck me as odd since I had only lived outside Ukraine for a year. However, in fourth grade, my family relocated to the United Arab Emirates, and I enrolled in a British school in Sharjah. Thanks to my previous experience in Qatar, studying in English was familiar, and both the school and the country offered a much more diverse environment than my previous experiences. I was no longer the sole foreign student.
Interestingly, the sense of being seen as foreign in Ukraine differed from my experience in Sharjah. In Ukraine, it was more about not being perceived as fully White, whereas in Sharjah, I was viewed as a 'White' foreigner. During middle school, there were moments when I wished I were fully Arab to blend in more and be like everyone else. However, as I matured, I began to embrace my Whiteness and the unique qualities that distinguished me from my peers. Growing up in Ukraine also reinforced my sense of being Ukrainian rather than Palestinian for much of my life. Additionally, my lack of fluent Arabic prevented me from fully connecting with an Arab identity, further shaping my self-perception.
Alina, 2002
Alina and her parents, 2004
T: What lasting memories do your school years hold for you?
A: I consider myself fortunate due to my adaptable identity: I never felt completely out of place; I could almost blend in while still being the intriguingly different child at school. Perhaps this was because I wasn’t too foreign, which may explain why I never encountered any negativity from any school in any country I have lived in; I was familiar enough.
The school experience in Arab countries differs significantly from that in Ukrainian schools. For instance, in Ukraine, most of us walked to school and had considerable freedom to come and go as we pleased. In contrast, in Sharjah, this was not an option; strict security measures at the gates allowed students to leave only after classes ended and only with a parent or with special permission signed by them. I believe this strictness from school, society, and family contributed to my feeling young for a long time. It slowed down the process of growing up, which can be viewed as both positive and negative, but for me, it was positive as it extended my childhood, which I see as a good thing.
One of the benefits of attending an international school in Sharjah was its diversity, contrasting sharply with the Ukrainian school experience due to the UAE's predominantly migrant society. I am immensely grateful for the opportunity to have studied in multiple countries, as it exposed me to different cultures, educational systems, and environments.
T: But which culture has shaped you as a person the most?
A: I believe that Ukrainian culture has profoundly influenced the majority of my life. Born in Ukraine, I spent every summer visiting and had close contact with my Ukrainian grandparents, thanks to the absence of a language barrier. My mother played a significant role in shaping who I am, spending countless hours with me during my formative years. Consequently, Ukrainian culture permeated my life more deeply than Arabic, despite my residence in the United Arab Emirates.
However, my move to London to pursue an MFA in Fine Arts at Kingston University marked my first experience living independently, far from my family. The homesickness and nostalgia hit hard, and I found myself longing for a sense of "Arabic-ness" to feel at home. Encountering many Ukrainians in London reminded me that I am more than just Ukrainian. Years of living in an Arab country have also left their mark, influencing my cultural, ethical, and moral perspectives, often intertwined with religious beliefs.
Interestingly, during my summer visits to Ukraine, I would miss the "Arabic vibes," illustrating the proverbial grass being greener on the other side. This sentiment resonates with many from dual cultures; in a Ukrainian setting, I yearn for Arabic influences, and in an Arabic setting, I crave Ukrainian elements. I feel that until I can freely speak Arabic, I may not fully feel Arab enough, as language remains a significant barrier. Despite everyone around me speaking English, it feels unfamiliar, leading me to consider myself only half-Arab. This, perhaps, is the reality of growing up in the diaspora. Therefore, I prefer to identify as Ukrainian-Palestinian rather than Palestinian-Ukrainian.
T: How did you come to embrace this identity?
A: I have consistently described myself as Ukrainian-Palestinian, except for a period in middle school when it seemed simpler to identify solely as Ukrainian to avoid explaining my lack of Arabic proficiency. Upon moving to London, I encountered a cultural contrast that took me by surprise. In Arab countries, self-identity is often deeply rooted in familial background, whereas in London, identity appears to be determined more by citizenship or place of residence.
This cultural shift prompted me to reflect on my own identity. If I identify purely by citizenship, am I solely Ukrainian? If by paternal ethnicity, am I exclusively Palestinian? And if by residence, would I be considered Emirati? The notion seems amusing because I am in the UAE on a residency visa, not as a citizen. In England, I often found myself clarifying that despite living in the UAE for 16 years and being born there (as some friends assumed), I am not Emirati by origin.
In the UAE, people typically identify first by their parental origins, then by their passport, and finally acknowledge their residence status. This is largely due to the rarity of obtaining Emirati citizenship, as residency visas are more common. This layered approach to identity in the UAE contrasts sharply with the more straightforward identity perceptions I encountered in London, where personal and national identities are often seen through different lenses.
T: What inspired you to start the journey into art world?
A: I never set out with a clear intention to pursue a career in art. My interests were scattered across journalism, fashion design, psychology, and sociology, yet none garnered support from my parents. Eventually, I settled on marketing and asked my father for his card details to submit my application to the University of Sharjah. However, my father disapproved of marketing and architecture, the latter being my impromptu alternative. Within five minutes, we decided I would study interior design.
Once university started, I discovered the University of Sharjah had a well-structured system, requiring a compulsory foundation year divided into three semesters. The first semester covered art basics, the second rotated through classes in graphic design, fashion design, fine arts, and interior design, and the third focused on one major to determine its suitability for the next three years. Upon entering the interior design program, I quickly realised it was not for me. After much deliberation, I chose fine arts, reasoning that it would provide the flexibility to apply for any arts-related master's program in the future. Now, here I am, pursuing a Master's in Fine Arts.
Art, it seems, has always been in my blood. My great-grandmother on my mother’s side was a talented self-taught artist, and my mother took up painting during the COVID-19 pandemic, despite having no prior experience. My great-grandmother specialised in various mediums, from oil painting and pastels to gobelins. She often tried to teach me to draw with pastels when I was young, but I preferred playing outside. Now, I wish I had spent more time learning from her. Her dream was for me to become an artist, and a year before her passing, I enrolled in fine arts.
Pictures by Daria Viashchenko
T: Tell us about collaboration with the Warsaw Museum of Modern Art.
A: For the Warsaw Museum of Modern Art, I organized a workshop inspired by a video I previously created called "Outsider." In the video, I repeatedly write the word "outsider" using watermelon juice and watermelon skin in three languages: Ukrainian, Arabic, and English. This project prompted me to reflect on how Ukrainian and Arabic should have been my first languages, but I instead fell into the linguistic colonization of English and Russian.
Since I don't use Russian in public, I chose to exclude it from the video. The main idea of this work is the feeling of being an outsider in both Ukrainian-speaking and Arabic-speaking communities, while English has become my most commonly used language in everyday life.
It was a great honour to host this workshop as part of a Palestinian solidarity event that also screened one of my favourite films by Palestinian artist Jumana Manna, "The Foragers." The film explores za’atar, a popular Palestinian herb mix that is a significant part of Palestinian heritage. It addresses how za’atar is being confiscated and treated as an illegal substance due to the occupation and various laws that restrict Palestinians' ability to work with agriculture on their own land.
I believe my use of watermelons was a fitting addition to this event, as it connected themes of food and resistance.
Pictures by Yulia Krivich
T: You mentioned that you primarily speak English and Russian. Do you believe that language holds great significance?
A: Language carries immense significance and power, and the impact of English and Russian linguistic imperialism has been profound. My family spoke Russian, so I didn't receive a strong foundation in Arabic during my childhood. Unfortunately, Russian and English became my primary languages. I spoke Russian mainly with my parents and family, while my friends spoke English. I attended a British school and university where English was the medium of instruction.
I feel incredibly fortunate to have had the opportunity to study in Ukraine. This experience has given me a better grasp of Ukrainian compared to my other Ukrainian-Palestinian friends who didn't have the same educational background. It’s surreal to realize now that Ukrainian and Arabic should have been my primary languages. I hope to achieve fluency in both languages one day.
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Self-portrait
T: What role do artists play in fostering peace and dialogue through their art?
A: In the realm of creative expression, art often enjoys a unique degree of freedom compared to other forms like journalism, affording artists greater latitude in conveying messages. Personally, my focus lies in fostering transnational solidarity for both of my countries through my artistic endeavors. Throughout history, art has served as a poignant mirror of contemporary issues; for instance, the art of the 1960s prominently addressed the Vietnam War and advocated for peace. While art and activism share interconnected roots, it's crucial to discern their distinct roles. Nonetheless, political art frequently emerges as a potent instrument for activism and political enlightenment.
T: Could you elaborate on your work "Watermelon Battalion"? What inspired the concept behind this piece?
A: In "Watermelon Battalion," the concept stemmed from the symbolic resonance of watermelons in Ukraine and Palestine as emblems of resistance. Witnessing their use during the Kherson liberation in Ukraine in 2022, where they echoed the colors of the Palestinian flag—red, green, white, and black—sparked the initial inspiration. This symbolism has historically defied censorship and amplified voices advocating for Palestinian rights.
The artwork itself features ceramic watermelon bombs, initially conceived as a singular explosive but expanded into a garden of these symbolic objects. The concept evolved after engaging in Political Gardening discussions, where speakers Dana Olarescu, Darya Tsymbaliuk, and Raluca Voinea encouraged me to broaden my artistic expression.
The video component of the piece reflects on the absurdities of Russian propaganda, echoing my reflections during the Ukrainian invasion. The transformation of watermelons into bomb shapes serves as a metaphor for nature's instinctive response to oppression and aggression, drawing parallels between struggles for freedom and resistance in both Ukraine and Palestine.
Pictures by Alina
T: What aspects of Ukrainian and Palestinian cultures inspire you the most? What similarities do you see between these two cultures?
A: It may seem like these are two completely different cultures, but they actually share many similarities. One of the most poignant similarities lies in their profound spiritual ties to the land and agricultural heritage. Both communities hold a sacred reverence for their ancestral lands, making issues of land appropriation deeply resonant. In Palestinian culture, this reverence is palpable in the cherished status of olive trees, while Ukraine is renowned for its fertile soils and agricultural prowess.
Another cultural thread weaving these two worlds together is traditional embroidery: Vyshyvanka in Ukraine and Tatreez in Palestine. Both art forms feature intricate geometric patterns rather than figurative designs, often employing hues like red and black. These embroideries also carry regional codes, reflecting their origins or conveying symbolic meanings, symbolizing resilience and endurance.
Even in traditional dances, similarities emerge. Ukrainian Hopak and Palestinian Dabke share vigorous leg movements and are performed during moments of celebration, accompanied by rhythmic foot stomping that echoes cultural pride and unity.
Beyond these cultural expressions, everyday customs resonate deeply in both societies: the practice of removing shoes indoors as a sign of respect, the warm hospitality extended to guests, and a community spirit that contrasts with the individualism often found in Western societies. And then there's the legendary hospitality of grandmothers, who insist on feeding guests until they can eat no more—a testament to shared values of generosity and familial bonds across these rich cultural landscapes.
Pictures posted by Rami Atwan at palestineremembered.com
T: Your favorite Ukrainian and Palestinian artists?
A: I deeply admire the works of Ukrainian artists like Zhanna Kadyrova and Maksym Hodak, as well as Palestinian artists such as Mona Hatoum and Jumana Manna. When reflecting on the similarities between my two cultures, one of my favorite observations comes from the artworks of Kadyrova and Manna. In Kadyrova's piece "Palianytsia," she portrays Ukrainian bread, while Manna's work "Sketch and Bread" explores bread in the Palestinian context. Despite the different contexts of their works, it is fascinating to see how both artists integrate the significance of bread from their respective cultures into their art.
T: How do you personally experience the cruelty that we all witness today? How has your life changed recently?
A: As someone who grew up outside of both Ukraine and Palestine and currently splits my time between Sharjah and London, I hesitate to speak on behalf of those directly affected by the conflicts in these regions. However, throughout my life, I've always cherished the ability to return to Ukraine whenever I needed to, even though I've never had the opportunity to visit Palestine. Like many Ukrainians, I was caught off guard by the full-scale invasion that began on the morning of February 24th. It felt surreal waking up to the news on my phone, unable to believe what was unfolding.
I can't pretend to understand the anguish of those with family in Ukraine or Palestine during such times. My daily routines quickly shifted to following news reports closely, feeling a profound sense of helplessness and guilt from afar. It was disorienting to carry on with daily life while witnessing my country under attack, grappling with a sense of powerlessness. Over time, I've come to realize that living abroad doesn't negate my ability to contribute; advocating, writing, creating art, donating, and supporting educational efforts are all ways to make a difference from a distance.
I often wrestled with guilt over being away from my homeland during such crises, but I've come to understand that my circumstances are not solely responsible for this distance; I've lived abroad from a young age due to family reasons. The invasion of Ukraine has provided me with a deeper perspective on the experiences of my friends in the diaspora, many of whom hail from countries like Palestine, Syria, Sudan, Iraq, Lebanon, and others affected by conflict and invasion.
Pictures by Tiger Liu
BEHIND THE LATEST ARTWORK
I embarked on embroidering directly onto a watermelon peel! Mastering this technique required finding the right methods to preserve and prepare the peel. Initially, I was concerned that the peel might not dry properly and would simply decay.
Yet, through careful experimentation, I successfully dried the peel, transforming it into a suitable medium for embroidery.
Embroidering on a watermelon peel posed unique challenges. It necessitated keeping the peel moistened to prevent the needle from cracking it. Working against the clock, I had approximately three hours before the surface dried out, limiting the time I had to complete each embroidery piece. The pace of my work often reflected my mood and emotional state at the time.
During the exhibition, I purposely did not differentiate between Palestinian and Ukrainian embroidery in my pieces. Instead, I highlighted their subtle connections, allowing viewers to appreciate the shared elements between them that might not always be immediately apparent.
ABOUT EMBROIDERY SKILLS
Typically, embroidery is passed down by grandmothers, but I didn't have that chance. Fortunately, I attended a few workshops. Shortly after arriving in London, I joined a Ukrainian embroidery workshop. Later that year, I took part in another workshop led by an elderly Palestinian woman at a local gallery.
Picture by Alina
T: What reactions did this art project cause in people?
At my academy's critical analysis exhibition, I had the opportunity to present my art project. Renowned painter Mike Nelson, whom I deeply admire, was a guest critic and provided encouraging feedback on my work. Since our initial encounter during the Watermelon Battalion presentation last year, my artistic approach has evolved significantly. Previously, my pieces were overtly political, characterized by explicit themes. Now, I focus more on exploring the implicit aspects of culture and traditions.
The responses from viewers were profound. Many Ukrainian and Arab attendees approached me with questions that prompted new reflections for them. Some even admitted to discovering aspects they hadn't previously considered. While my artworks may not yet resonate globally, knowing they've sparked meaningful conversations and insights among those closest to me is deeply gratifying and continues to inspire my creative journey.
T: What are your visions for the future of Ukraine? And what are your hopes for the future of Palestine?
In contemplating the future of Ukraine and Palestine, optimism is tempered by the harsh realities of ongoing conflict and occupation. Initially, there's a glimmer of hope that the turmoil may subside soon, yet with time, the daunting prospect of prolonged instability looms larger. History teaches us that any ceasefire or temporary peace remains fragile in the face of persistent actions by occupying forces.
Nevertheless, I hold steadfast to the belief that both Ukraine and Palestine will ultimately regain their freedom and thrive once more, even if the road ahead is arduous. The path to liberation may be lengthy given the current hardships, but it's essential to continue raising awareness, preserving cultural legacies, and providing support however possible.
There's a poignant silver lining in witnessing global recognition and support for these nations that hold such deep personal significance for me. No longer must I explain their existence or location as I once did in my youth, when awareness of Ukraine or Palestine was sparse.
I cherish my Ukrainian and Palestinian heritage deeply, and every day, I hope and pray for a future where I can visit both countries without the shadow of conflict darkening their skies or the echoes of warplanes overhead.
Picture by Alina
By Alice Zhuravel