ar leaves its trail in blood and smoke. Paintings, however, are generally made with turpentine. If war is associated with the death of people and animals, the destruction of homes and the burning of fields, painting is an act of preservation – whether of a person, a harvest or the elements of nature.

However, the two do intersect. Turpentine is a flammable substance and can be lethal if ingested. War has long been a subject of art. Artists have celebrated battles, participated in some and been commissioned to depict victorious armies throughout history.

With that in mind, it felt uncanny to visit (Un)Layering the Future Past of South Asia at the SOAS Gallery in London – an exhibition featuring artists from India, Pakistan and other SAARC countries – at a time of renewed tensions between India and Pakistan. Despite recent incidents, the uncertainty of what lay ahead, and the bitterness of shared history that continues to provoke conflict across the region, the artists in this exhibition (curated by Salima Hashmi and Manmeet K Walia) are concerned with themes that are both deeply local and widely global.

Geography cannot be altered; the presence of a neighbouring country cannot be denied. Rather than focusing on fleeting clashes, the exhibition prompts reflection on more enduring issues: violence, intolerance and discrimination – problems that persist across several South Asian nations.

Some of these tensions are rooted in religious interpretations, ethnic divides, gender marginalisation, economic hardship and entrenched power structures. All of those are reflected in the work of participating artists who explore the complexities of their region. Despite national boundaries and political borders, South Asia remains a deeply interwoven land.

The erosion of barriers has been accelerated by advances in technology. Even when citizens cannot physically cross borders, they can still connect with those on the other side – sharing language, culture and histories that transcend official divisions.

This paradox is evident in conflicts between any two neighbouring countries. While their armies may be engaged in battle, their people often speak the same language, practise the same religion, and contribute to a shared culture that stretches beyond boundaries. As a result, many find points of connection – even with those living in the so-called enemy states.

The exhibition, a timeless testimony to the South Asian condition, showcases how a younger generation of artists is engaging with questions of identity, environment, history and inequality. Divided into four sections, the show offers a wide-ranging exploration of personal perspectives, conceptual approaches and artistic practices from across the region.

In the section titled Textile as Contemporary Practice, Hadi Rahnaward’s Fragile Balance (2023) addresses the presence and weight of power in a country long marked by Taliban rule, US intervention and social collapse. His piece resembles a traditional carpet, but features the imprint of an army boot and is bordered on two sides by matchsticks. While echoing the loose fibres that traditionally fringe Afghan rugs, these sticks suggest fire and, by extension, self-immolation – a reflection on the devastating reality of his homeland.

An immense, silent, devoted labour of grief, to put the world’s weeping to rest in the most everyday things.

Beyond the symbolism of Afghan rugs as emblems of cultural identity, the crisis of identity looms large for many in Afghanistan, particularly the Hazara community. Due to their distinct features, Hazaras are often marked out as ethnically and religiously different and targeted as a result. Hanifa Alizada’s black-and-white digital prints, Die to Remain Alive (2012), depict a Hazara girl attempting to alter her appearance: narrowing her nostrils, sharpening the bridge of her nose, widening her eyes – all in a desperate effort to blend in with the Pashtun majority and secure a measure of safety.

The exploration of identity continues, particularly through the voices of women. Kubra Khademi’s three gouache paintings on paper, originally created as illustrations for primers, handbooks and manuals, depict young girls engaged in stitching, embroidery, sewing, painting, and decorating their hands with henna. These domestic tasks, learned as part of cultural heritage, also symbolise the confinement of women within the home.

Aimen Amin’s video still Leeko (2014) presents a solitary Baloch woman seated against the mud wall of her home, singing a song that seems unending. Even if one cannot decipher the words, the melody resonates with sorrow – a lament of loss and grief.

Sound plays a central role in Amrit Karki’s Whisper (2021), which features a wall-mounted horn speaker broadcasting the soft intimacy of a private message. The exhibition’s section Shared Histories, Collective Memories reflects South Asia’s familiar auditory legacy – from Sufi songs and film music to ceremonial announcements and public broadcasts. Like its cuisine, the region’s soundscape is layered with diverse inflections.

Once converted to text, these sounds also shape the visual environment. Citizens of South Asia regularly encounter a blend of languages – from mother tongues to national and official languages such as English – often fragmented and reassembled in unexpected ways. Shop fronts display English product names in Urdu script, while mobile messages in Urdu or Sindhi appear typed in Roman letters.

Language, particularly its emergence in script, is fragmented, shuffled and reassembled in the work of Ghulam Muhammad. His paper collages and ink-on-wasli sketches provoke reflection on what is handed down in structured forms, often from positions of authority – a notion reinforced by the titles of three pieces: Assembly, Angle and Garrison. Though these suggest a militaristic order, GM’s visual language transforms text into texture, or rather, into textile, dissolving its power, message and meaning.

Another artist exploring national trauma through textile is T Vinoja. Her felt and woven compositions evoke the tragedy of Sri Lanka’s civil war and the disappearance of thousands of people who were killed, tortured, drowned, buried or simply lost to silence. Vinoja’s art mourns the nameless through torn landscapes, ambiguous structures and bleeding hues. The tenderness and sophistication of her imagery place her among artists — including several featured in the SOAS Gallery exhibition — who, like the protagonist in Stefan Hertmans’ War and Turpentine, channel grief not through scenes of violence, but through the quiet, enduring beauty of everyday life. As Hertmans writes: “What mattered most to him was something he could not share with others. So he painted trees, clouds, peacocks… still-lifes on half-cleared tables — an immense, silent, devoted labour of grief, to put the world’s weeping to rest in the most everyday things. He never painted a single war scene.”

The writer is a visual artist, an art critic, a curator and a professor at the School of Visual Arts and Design, Beaconhouse National University, Lahore. He can be contacted on quddusmirza@gmail.com.