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LebanonInterviewArtArchitecture

by Alexandra Mansilla

The Land Remembers: CAL Builds Lebanon’s Pavilion At the Venice Biennale

25 Apr 2025

Muhaibib. Photo: Green Southerners

Lebanon at the 19th International Architecture Exhibition of La Biennale di Venezia (opening May 10 and running through November 23)! This doesn’t happen often, which makes it all the more exciting.
The curators of the Lebanese Pavilion are the Collective for Architecture Lebanon (CAL), founded by Edouard Souhaid, Shereen Doummar, Elias Tamer, and Lynn Chamoun. This year’s pavilion is titled The Land Remembers.
Why this title? Because the land does remember — every war, every act of destruction. The land itself holds the scars of conflict and environmental devastation. The pavilion, presented as a fictional institution called The Ministry of Land Intelligence, is devoted to healing the wounds of ecocide and building a living, evolving archive of this intentional destruction. It invites visitors to engage with the idea that the land is not a passive backdrop, but an active witness — and perhaps even a storyteller — of our collective past.
The Land Remembers is a powerful call to action — a space for reflection and activism that confronts visitors with the urgent reality of environmental collapse.
To understand why the Lebanese Pavilion looks the way it does — and why it couldn’t have looked any other way — we spoke with Edouard Souhaid, one of the founding members of CAL.
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Collective for Architecture Lebanon (CAL): Edouard Souhaid, Elias Tamer, Lynn Chamoun, Shereen Doummar

— Hello Edouard! So, the title of the Lebanon Pavilion at the Venice Biennale is The Land Remembers — could you tell me more about the concept behind it?
— First of all, the idea came about because this year the Biennale’s theme revolves around intelligence — natural, artificial, and collective. We explored the concept of natural intelligence.
The title itself came from the curatorial statement, which emphasises that before architecture, there is land. We are speaking about land in its essence. We realised that whatever is done to the land, whether you mould it, build upon it, or impose architecture onto it, it always remembers. Land holds memory. That became a key takeaway for us. No matter what you do, it retains its history and has the ability to regenerate.
One example that illustrates this is a contribution from Jouzour Loubnan (Roots of Lebanon). Their work was fascinating. They studied the iris flower in Lebanon — seven species of irises are endemic to the country, each tied to a specific region where it exclusively grows. During the conflict and destruction, particularly in the South, our first question was: how do we heal the land to build for future generations?
What we found was powerful — the seeds of these irises remained in the soil. We didn’t need to replant them. We simply had to wait — they regenerated on their own. This notion of seeds and of nature carrying everything within itself is profound. Nature is prepared to return, to flourish again. It holds memory, life, and resilience embedded within it.
A major part of our inquiry is the relationship between humans and non-humans, not as one of control, but of mutual connection. The land remembers what we do.
We attribute memory — a deeply human trait — to the land. And when we assign human qualities to nature, it carries with it a sense of responsibility: to protect it as we would protect one another. Because we are part of nature too, and we rely on it to survive.
What is especially interesting is how this concept translates into Arabic. In Arabic, “the land” translates to ard, which carries a much more conceptual, emotional, and meaningful resonance. That really struck us — when you speak to a Lebanese person about ard, it is not just agricultural or functional land; it holds cultural and emotional significance.
Moreover, ours is one of the few national flags that features a natural element. Even the name Lebanon comes from laban, meaning “the mountains.”
— I feel like, when you talk about the land, it is almost as if you are describing a human being. If the land were a person, how would you portray it?
— Let me clarify: for us, it is not about saying the land is human, but rather that the land is just as important as a human being. We depend on it — we need the land to live.
Let me give you one example that really shows how deeply intertwined nature and communities are.
When we began this project, we created a lot of maps. And one of the first things we noticed was the deliberate destruction of olive trees happening in the South and across other parts of Lebanon.
But it wasn’t just about cutting down trees — some of which are thousands of years old. It was about destroying entire communities that depend on those trees to survive. That realisation is what sparked our call to action. Without the olive trees, these communities lose their livelihoods, their connection to the land.
What we are witnessing in Lebanon today — the destruction of nature — isn’t just an environmental crisis. It is a crisis of existence. Because humans without nature cannot exist. The two are deeply connected.
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Blida. Photo: Green Southerners

— And you created this fictional ministry — the Ministry of Land Intelligens. I am curious, what led you to present the pavilion in this way?
— We didn’t want the pavilion to be just an observatory or purely informative. An important part of it was giving it a more activist role.
We wanted to emphasise the need for architects to take a more active role. That has always been part of our approach — this relationship between architecture and politics. Because the built environment — and even the natural one — is inherently political. It is tied to sociology, to governance, to so many disciplines. And as architects, we need to acknowledge that and take responsibility.
Calling it a Ministry gives it structure. It adds responsibility. It is not just about sharing research — it is about making that research actionable. And that is what we found interesting about the pavilion: the fact that it doesn’t end in Venice. It would evolve into something more long-term, more impactful.
It is not just an exhibition — it is a living, evolving project. The people we are working with are still working. Every day, I get new pictures, new counter-maps, new updates — because the subject isn’t finished. It is still happening.
—The Ministry consists of four departments, right? Could you walk me through each of them?
— The first department is the Department of Ecocide Reports, which is pretty straightforward in terms of what it does: it documents environmental destruction — ecocide — on a broad scale using photographs, maps, and research.
For example, we have been working with an organisation called Green Southerners, which has been documenting this destruction in the South of Lebanon over the past year. But they don’t just go there to do surveys — they actually collaborate with local communities, take photos with them, and actively work on the ground. That is what gives this department its activist character. Without them, we wouldn’t have access to that crucial documentation.
Then there is the second department, the Department of Counter-Mapping. The idea here is that mapping, although often perceived as objective, is highly subjective. There is always a perspective, an intention behind every map. So with this department, which includes collaborations with Public Works Studio, Aude Abou Nasr, and others, we are trying to shift that narrative. We are creating maps that reflect the stories and realities we want to highlight — maps that challenge dominant narratives rather than reinforce them.
The third department is the Department of Endemic Species. Through our work with Jouzour Loubnan, we have learned that Lebanon is one of the most biodiverse countries in the Mediterranean. There are more than 108 endemic species — meaning species that only exist in Lebanon — and that number is still growing.
What we did was collect these species, illustrate them, research them, and create a website as part of our public archive. We also partnered with Jouzour Loubnan to create a seed bank, as a way of preserving these species for future generations. This department is focused on protecting endangered species and diving deeper into the relationships between different plants, seeds, and ecosystems.
And finally, the fourth department is the Department of Strategic Healing. This one is more theoretical. In the pavilion, you will see that this section is more text-based because healing the land requires both science and imagination.
We are talking about methods like bioremediation — a scientific process where the land heals by removing heavy metals or toxins. We are working with Leila Darwish, who wrote Earth Repair, a book about repairing ecosystems. But strategic healing is also about the future — about asking: How can we restore land for future generations? It is about bringing together researchers, scientists, and communities to explore different paths forward.
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Labonah, Naqura. Photo: Green Southerners

— What will the physical space actually look like? How will these departments be presented?
— The pavilion is located on the first floor of the Arsenale, and its layout is designed in the shape of a cross, each arm representing one of the four departments.
At the centre is a large table made entirely of adobe bricks, which we built ourselves. These bricks are central, not just physically, but conceptually. They reflect a hands-on, grounded approach. In each department, you walk into a space defined by these bricks, with tables that hold different pieces of research. Around you, fabric curtains hang from the ceiling — printed with research material, imagery, and video content that brings each department’s focus to life.
From the beginning, this project was very research-based, very experimental and conceptual — but we always wanted to translate ideas into action. That is why the research you see in the pavilion is also present — and expanded on — in the catalogue. And the catalogue itself isn’t an afterthought. It is not like with other pavilions, where the book comes later or feels separate. For us, the book and the pavilion were developed together. We actually started with the book.
We asked: How do we bring this research into physical space? How do we communicate it to the public? That led to the framework of the Ministry and the division into four departments, which helped us shape both the content and the space itself.
We also asked: If we were really building the Ministry of Land Intelligens, what would it look like? What kind of materials would it use? That led us to adobe bricks, which made sense not just materially, but symbolically.
Lebanon has a unique type of red soil — terra rossa, or "red earth" — which we also found in Italy. There is a lot of folklore and meaning associated with this soil, and we touch on that in the catalogue as well. It gave the project a poetic layer: this shared, ancient material that links the Mediterranean and connects Lebanon and Italy through land and history.
There is also a political and environmental layer to the decision. If you are building a pavilion that addresses ecological destruction, it would be hypocritical to use unsustainable methods just to make it look good. That is something we thought about a lot.
So we made the bricks in Milan, shipped them a short distance to Venice, and they are reusable. If we want to bring the pavilion back to Lebanon later, it is not about putting everything in a shipping container. These are adobe bricks. We now have the knowledge to build with them anywhere.
The bricks became more than just material — they represent the values of the Ministry: sustainability, activism, local knowledge, and collective labour. The pavilion isn’t just something to look at — it is something to work with, to sit at, to build from.
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The Land Remembers, Collective for Architecture Lebanon

— If I am not mistaken, you collaborated with 13 contributors on this project. Could you highlight a few of the works that you think every visitor should definitely pay attention to?
— One important thing to mention right away is that the Lebanese Pavilion is entirely privately funded. Lebanon doesn’t participate in the Venice Biennale every year, especially not in architecture. This is actually only the third time Lebanon has taken part.
There is no consistent support from the Ministry of Culture for this kind of engagement, so we had to push hard for Lebanon to be present this year. It was important to us, not just symbolically, but because we are addressing issues that matter. That is also where the list of collaborators becomes essential.
We have Karim Emile Bitar, a political scientist, who opens the catalogue with an interview that introduces the political context in Lebanon. He explores whether environmental issues are even considered in Lebanese politics — and how decisions are made around land, nature, and development. It gives a necessary backdrop to everything we are doing.
We worked with Jouzour Loubnan, an NGO and seed bank dedicated to endemic species. They helped us bring 43 endemic plant species from Lebanon to Venice. You will see them in the pavilion, alongside research and preservation efforts.
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The Land Remembers, Collective for Architecture Lebanon

There is Public Works Studio — as their name suggests, they often do the work that public institutions fail to do. They have helped us create counter-maps and research tools that challenge dominant narratives.
We collaborated with Mohamed Choucair, an artist who explored the use of drones during wartime, specifically how ecocide was carried out through airstrikes, and how the sound of drones carries a psychological weight. He went to the South, recorded drone sounds and studied the types of drones.
Dr. Rami Zurayk is another key contributor. He is an ecosystem specialist and soil expert, and helped us understand how to collect, study, and heal soil. His writing in the catalogue looks at the devastation of the land, but also its resilience — its capacity to recover if we act responsibly.
We also have Munira Khayyat, a writer, and Jala Makhzoumi, a landscape architect, who took a more personal approach, travelling to the South and documenting their experience in a poetic, reflective way.
Each contribution was different — not just in content, but in format. That was intentional. We wanted to bring many voices and many tools, because architects tend to rely on maps, drawings, and plans, but other disciplines bring their own ways of seeing and telling.
Even in the catalogue, that variety is visible. For instance, illustrator Amy Chiniara worked with Jouzour Loubnan to illustrate the native irises of Lebanon — the first time the NGO collaborated with an illustrator to visualise scientific data artistically. That is exactly the kind of connection we wanted to foster: science meets art, and new ways of storytelling emerge.
All contributors are different, and each brings a piece of the puzzle. And that is really what our collective is about: it is a platform for bringing people together across fields, perspectives, and practices.
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The Land Remembers, Collective for Architecture Lebanon

— What do you think a visitor will feel when they enter your pavilion? What message do you hope they will receive?
— The first thing people will likely notice when they enter the pavilion is the bricks. And the thing is — no two bricks are the same. We made them all by hand, and the process was intentionally experimental. It was never just about producing bricks — it was about exploring new ways of building, reconstructing, and working with material in a hands-on, thoughtful way.
We ended up with around 300 bricks forming the central table. Each one tells its own story. They differ in size, shape, texture, and even in the materials used. And that is part of the experience: we want visitors to walk in and ask questions. Why are they different? What went into making them? The bricks invite people to look closer, to engage, and through that, they start to understand the process behind them.
But beyond the materiality, what you will encounter in the pavilion is unfiltered. From the very beginning, we were clear: this is not about beautifying destruction. We are not interested in romanticising it. This isn’t a fashion display polished to fit an aesthetic.
The images you will see aren’t staged or stylised. They are raw photographs, taken on the ground in the South of Lebanon by people who were there, witnessing, documenting. That is important to us because the message would be lost if it were made to look too polished or detached.
At the same time, we also want to show that Lebanon is incredibly rich and diverse — not only in its culture, but in its ecosystems, landscapes, and communities. There is a message of resilience that runs through the entire pavilion. Not just human resilience, but natural resilience.
People often say the Lebanese are resilient — and that is true — but so is the land. The land continues to heal, to resist, to endure.
The connection between Lebanese and nature is immediate and raw. The destruction isn’t abstract — it is right in front of us. We live with it. We live through it.
Yes, we are showing the crisis — but we are also showing the strength of what remains. The land in Lebanon adapts. It endures. And that is a core part of what we want people to feel: the ongoing resilience of the land, even in the face of deep and continuous harm.
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