Rania Matar's 'Where Do I Go?' Illuminates Young Women's Lives in Lebanon
Viewing images shaped by war, memory, and inheritance inevitably draws attention to the lives still unfolding within them. Photographer Rania Matar directs her lens toward young women coming of age in her homeland of Lebanon, where uncertainty has become a constant reality. Captured in the years following the devastating 2020 Beirut port explosion and amidst Lebanon's prolonged unrest, her work in the new book "Where Do I Go?" resides at the intersection of the personal and the collective.
A Subtle Approach to Storytelling
Matar deliberately avoids centering spectacle or destruction in her photography. Instead, her images move with subtlety and nuance. A body leaning against a crumbling wall, a gesture held just a moment longer than anticipated, a landscape that appears both picturesque and unsettled—these elements convey deeper narratives. The women in these photographs are not merely subjects being observed; they actively shape the creative process, infusing the frame with their own stories, instincts, and boundaries. Over time, this collaboration fosters a profound sense of trust and shared authorship.
"Where Do I Go?" is a body of work that intimately reflects a generation grappling with seemingly impossible choices: whether to stay in Lebanon, whether to leave, and how to envision a future when the past persistently resurfaces. In the following conversation, Matar discusses collaboration, vulnerability, and the quiet manifestations of resilience, even under the most uncertain conditions. The accompanying images offer a glimpse into this intricate process.
Creating a Space for Vulnerability and Agency
Throughout the project, the women undertake real physical risks, from climbing structures to trespassing and entering water. Matar explains how she cultivates an environment where emotional and physical vulnerability transforms into a source of agency. "My goal has always been to collaborate with any woman willing to work with me," she states. "We typically begin with a phone call to get acquainted and develop a plan. I always try to start with their personal story and their individual relationship to Lebanon. Most often, we build a shoot around exactly that. Sometimes, though, we drift toward collective history and shared memory rather than the personal."
Matar emphasizes that she never requests photos in advance or similar prerequisites. "For me, any woman willing to put herself out there and collaborate is, by definition, someone worth working with," she asserts. Initially, there is an inevitable tentativeness on both sides, but the session unfolds organically as comfort grows. "I consider that early hesitation valuable. It creates space for experimentation, and I try to protect it rather than rush past it," Matar notes.
She often starts shoots in familiar locations with clothing of the women's choice. As the session progresses, mutual comfort increases, leading to an unspoken understanding and a dynamic exchange of ideas. "I always make sure to make them feel welcome to offer their suggestions and to provide positive reinforcement. When I have suggestions myself, I learned to know the limits of their comfort zone before I ask anything from them. I guess there is a mutual respect and trust that must develop to make the shoot a success," Matar explains.
Determining 'The Shot' Through Collaboration
When working with young women who actively shape the images, Matar describes how she recognizes "the shot." "During the process, I am usually very much in the moment. I am always telling them (and I mean it) how beautiful this or that moment or expression is, to please hold it, etc. It is wonderful to see how as the session evolves, we start feeling in sync and bouncing ideas off each other," she shares.
Matar never asks the women to step outside their comfort zones, but she observes how they often do so independently as time passes. "At that moment, I am not thinking of the results. If I get a great picture at the end, it is the ultimate reward—the icing on top of the cake," she remarks. While she sends the women a selection of her favorites, Matar ultimately decides on the final image, often one she did not anticipate during the shoot. She references a quote by Graciela Iturbide: "For me, there are two decisive moments: One is when you take the photograph and the other is when you discover what it is that you actually photographed."
Personal Connections and Historical Echoes
Matar's focus on collaborating with young women stems from deeply personal roots. "I lost my mother when I was 3, so questions of female lineage—what gets passed down, what gets lost—have shaped me from the very beginning. Becoming a mother myself, and watching my own daughters move through childhood, puberty, their teenage years and into young adulthood only deepened that focus," she reveals.
With this project, another layer emerged. Matar left Lebanon at roughly the same age as the young women she photographs. "I watched a situation I thought might resolve itself instead repeating itself, decade after decade. And here they were, at the same crossroads I once stood at: trying to figure out where to go, what kind of future was even possible, and where would that be. I was these women," she reflects.
Having departed Lebanon in 1984 during the civil war, Matar's experience informs her approach. "In 2020, after the Port of Beirut explosions, many young people seemed to be at that same juncture: Do they stay or do they leave? This project began when I returned to Beirut at that moment and started working closely with women across the country. They inspired me. They were working on the reconstruction, cleaning the debris, etc. I started collaborating with them to tell their stories, and I recognized my own experience in many of them," she says.
These women face the painful decision of whether to stay or leave—one path leading to separation from family and home, the other involving remaining amid fraught conditions while clinging to hope. "I knew exactly how they felt all these years later. I saw myself in them, in a painful realization that history keeps repeating itself," Matar admits. "That is what I wanted the photographs to hold. Not the wound itself, but the person who continues to exist within it."
Balancing Destruction with Beauty and Hope
Many backgrounds in Matar's work display layered destruction, yet she strives to balance documenting harsh realities with revealing beauty and hope. "Lebanon has many varied and layered textures. The country survived years of war. Its geography is between the beautiful Mediterranean with the very blue sky, and the Lebanese mountain chains. Women, land, and architecture are all intertwined. These spaces are part of our individual but also collective memories. They bear witness to our stories and our histories. Beauty and decay are always side by side," she observes.
Matar initially intended to document women's relationships to Lebanon post-explosion, but the project evolved into a long-term endeavor as conditions deteriorated—economic collapse, the COVID-19 pandemic, and another war in 2024. "And then, of course, I realized that 2025 was the 50th anniversary of the outbreak of the Lebanese Civil War. It felt like that it was the natural progression of the project to end the work for the book in 2025. Sadly, we are now in 2026. Soon we will celebrate the 51st anniversary since the outbreak of the war. And, here we are again," she notes.
One pivotal moment defined the project and provided its title. "On the crumbling wall of an abandoned building, I saw graffiti scrawled in Arabic: لوين روح (Where do I go?). I was with Perla, a young woman who suddenly threw herself against that wall. In that fleeting moment, that question became the title of this body of work," Matar recounts.
Addressing Desensitization and Offering a Counter-Narrative
With a war spanning decades, Matar grapples with audience desensitization to images of violence. "Desensitization is something I think about constantly. I worry myself about getting desensitized after all the horror we have been witnessing coming out of Gaza for the past 2.5 years, as we casually scroll on our phones. Trying to stay away from similar images shaped many editing decisions I made in this book," she explains.
After visiting South Lebanon post-2024 ceasefire and photographing destruction, Matar deliberately excluded those images from the book. "We are already drowning in photographs of devastation. I didn’t want to contribute to that numbing. I wanted to push through it," she asserts. Instead, her work aims for the metaphorical and enduring, focusing on womanhood, strength, creativity, and resilience—the layers of memory that persist beyond bombardment.
"Don’t take me wrong; these images of utter suffering and destruction are important. They bear witness to what is unfolding and to the truth. I just wanted this book to also tell a different story: a story of overcoming," Matar clarifies. The young women provided this counter-narrative, demonstrating that complexity, interiority, and forward momentum coexist with and outlast destruction.
The Title's Relevance and Hopes for Lebanon's Future
The title "Where Do I Go?" encapsulates the recurring dilemma faced by Lebanese youth. "Lebanon is in a state of war again. It is being heavily bombed as I write this, and one million people have been displaced and made homeless. This is 20% of the population of Lebanon. Where do they go? It’s relentless," Matar states. The question remains achingly relevant as conflicts persist.
Young people are torn between staying to invest in their beloved country or leaving for better opportunities. "It is not easy and there are no obvious answers," Matar acknowledges. Some leave and return periodically, like herself, while others come back permanently or never depart. Before the recent war, there was hope—Beirut was revitalizing, and many women started businesses or creative ventures.
Matar shares an example: Yasmina, photographed after the port explosion, had a tattoo reading "قوة (strength)" on her back. "When I saw her this past fall (2025), she had covered that tattoo with a flower. She said, 'I am in a much better place now.' I keep thinking of her now, stuck again under the bombs," Matar reflects.
Regarding Lebanon's future, optimism is challenging amid ongoing war and occupation. "The women I collaborated with give me hope for the future of Lebanon. I want to tell them to please not give up, to stay strong, beautiful, idealistic and creative. They will make Lebanon, and I hope the world, a better place, I am sure!" Matar expresses.
Enduring Lessons from the Project
After years immersed in this work, what stays with Matar most is "the importance of remembering our shared humanity, and the extraordinary strength of the women, their refusal to give up. Their love of country and their deep, almost sacred, attachment to the land. It’s an attachment that many people struggle to understand from the outside, but once you witness it, it never leaves you."
Above all, she highlights "the hope. The unshakeable belief that Lebanon will always rise again—no matter what it endures. The women are the witnesses. They are the memory keepers. And in that role, they carry something far more lasting than any act of war ever could."
