There Is No War in Ba Sing Se
By Gloria Mwivanda
In the fictional city of Ba Sing Se, from the animated series Avatar: The Last Airbender, the ruling class insists: “There is no war in Ba Sing Se.” It is a lie repeated so often it becomes doctrine, whispered in markets, echoed in palaces, broadcast through smiling public servants. Outside the city walls, the world is burning. But inside, people are told to carry on, to pretend. To deny.
It’s a chilling metaphor for the times we live in now.
Being creative in a time of chaos feels like painting a sunset while sitting on the rubble of a city torn apart, as gunfire echoes in the distance and the wailing of women and children fills the air. What’s to be lost will be lost anyway. I might as well use my last canvas to paint one final sunset. Or in my case, use my camera to capture what once was, before it’s all gone.
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Shooting during times like these feels like trying to hold onto the last grains of sand as they slip too quickly through your fingers. Time seems to move faster, or maybe it’s that too much is happening at once. You never know whether the image you capture might be the last photograph ever taken of a place that once seemed eternal.
"To stay creative in a time of chaos is a privilege. But it is also a form of resistance."
To stay creative in a time of chaos is a privilege. But it is also a form of resistance. It does not mean ignoring the war; it means seeing it, acknowledging it, and choosing to document, impartially and truthfully, the human spirit even in its most despairing moments.
I’ve learned this best from nature. Even after disaster, rivers continue to flow, the sun still rises and sets, and until it is cut down, the tree stands tall to the very end. What good, then, does it do an artist to stop creating? What else can the artist do, except create? That is our role in the struggle: to offer a lifeline of hope, to offer new ways of seeing, to fan the fire of humanity with some beauty.
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When the Titanic struck the iceberg and began its descent into the Atlantic, the musicians kept playing. It was heartbreaking, but their music brought calm in the rising panic. Pablo Picasso, one of the most influential artists of the 20th century, created some of his most iconic works during the Spanish Civil War. War is designed to break the spirit of a people. Once that is achieved, death no longer frightens. To stay creative, then, is to fight to keep the spirit whole. We must do it scared. We must do it tired, alone, and to the very end.
There is a war going on in Ba Sing Se. To stay creative is not to deny it, but to fight back, with art, with music, with paintbrushes, cameras, and dance. Our role in the resistance is just as vital. If the revolution will not be televised, then let it be written, photographed, sung, choreographed, and performed on theatre stages.
The role of the artist, in peace and in war, remains the same: to reflect the times. This takes strength. Not just to show what is happening, but to see it fully, and to allow your purpose to rise above your fear.
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I’m living on Lamu Island, even as the rest of Kenya struggles with civil strife. Here, in this small coastal town, people speak of the unrest in hushed tones and continue with their daily lives. They lament the absence of tourists. They blame the chaos. And yet, despite the distance from the epicenters of conflict, the war is felt here too. We all try, quietly, deliberately, to wake up each day and carry on, like there is no war in Ba Sing Se.
