How deep must we dig to see the invisible?

Using Situated Testimony as a research methodology, Forensic Architecture invited artists and architects to work with survivors to reconstruct an architectural model of the prison. Initially, the researchers had no visual or physical materials beyond a 3D model based on satellite images of the building. They relied entirely on the survivors’ memories, employing architectural and acoustic modeling tools to create a virtual model and simulate the prison’s interior environment. During the reconstruction process, the prison’s survivors actively collaborated with researchers to determine room dimensions and position architectural elements within the rendered model. The project culminated in material evidence demonstrating how the prison’s architecture—its walls, doors, apertures, materials, and overall atmosphere—was used as an instrument of torture.[2] The outcome of this project played a key role in shaping the arguments and theoretical framework that informed my research in architecture.

In May 2024, I submitted my master’s thesis under the supervision of artist Prof. Milica Tomić at the (IZK) Institute for Contemporary Art, Faculty of Architecture, Graz University of Technology. Titled Construction Sites of the Social, the thesis was presented as a written work, utilizing text, language, and the book’s layout as mediums of investigation. Arguing that history is not simply linear but invested in networks of relations between global powers, the research was situated at the convergence of various historical events and their contemporary implications. Furthermore, the research argued that wars are not simply conflicts on the ground but also materializations of society itself. The arguments were grounded in the theoretical and analytical works of scholars such as Michel Foucault,[3] Tony Bennett,[4] Robin Schuldenfrei,[5] Kent F. Schull,[6] Tristan Garcia and Vincent Normand,[7] among others.

The research methodology included qualitative literature research and text analysis to synthesize existing perspectives into a critical theoretical framework. I also worked with a comparative analytical approach, namely juxtaposition, to analyze the exercise of power within two spatial configurations metaphorically called the White Cube and the Black Box, referring to the contemporary art exhibition space and the prison, respectively.

The term White Cube was coined by art critic Brian O’Doherty to critique the ideology standing behind the socially sanctioned, luxurious space typically used to exhibit contemporary art.[8] In contrast, the Black Box is a term adopted by Forensic Architecture artists and researchers to investigate buildings in Colombia where detainees were tortured and executed.[9]

The rationale for incorporating these two spaces into the study lies in the argument that both epitomize modernity and colonialism, utilizing technologies such as architecture to spatialize the power of governmentality in the modern state. This juxtaposition provided a framework for bridging divergent historical contexts through the lenses of architectural history and art theory, aiming to understand how modernity, as an ideology, operated across different dimensions in the Middle East and the Western sphere. Ultimately, these dimensions intersect, producing stark disparities and violent living conditions across these contexts.

The research arguments were explored in three interconnected sections: Interlinked Histories, Systems of Violence, and Spatial Investigation, each examining the display and concealment of power in different, overlapping contexts. The last section focused on analyzing how the exercise of power in the Black Box and the White Cube is performed through their architecture. To achieve this, I examined two case studies, reading their spaces through an architectural lens. The first was the Grazer Kunstverein, a contemporary art association in Graz, Austria. The second was Saydnaya Prison.

Drawing on reports by Forensic Architecture and Amnesty International, my analysis of Saydnaya Prison explored how different architectural elements were used as instruments of torture. Given that the prison staged an environment of visual obstruction and restricted movement, my study concentrated on the perception of space rather than analyzing the systems of surveillance within the building. According to survivors’ testimonies, the space was primarily perceived and understood through sound, touch, smell, temperature, building materials, and the ambiguous nature of its typology. As the research progressed, it became evident that these sensory elements were deliberately used to subject prisoners to ongoing torture, along with intermittent acts of physical abuse.

On December 8^th, 2024, the Black Box (Saydnaya Prison) was forced open after years of absolute secrecy and isolation. This breakthrough was made possible only after the fall of the Assad regime and the ousting of dictator Bashar al-Assad, who had ruled the country since the year 2000. Following the regime’s collapse, the rebels prioritized liberating all detainees from prisons and detention centers. As the public gained access to these sites and detainees were gradually released, new information about the horrific conditions inside these facilities began to surface, finally revealing what had been hidden for decades.

Initially, reports circulating on social media suggested that Saydnaya Prison had three underground floors, prompting an urgent public call to excavate the site. Dozens of rescue teams rushed to the prison to search and dig while many people gathered outside, hoping to find relatives or friends who had been abducted years earlier. After days of extensive searching, it was confirmed that there were no underground floors, and all prisoners had already been liberated.

The rapid succession of events was deeply traumatic for those who believed the missing detainees were trapped underground, clinging to the hope of reuniting with them. Mothers, fathers, siblings, and friends spent days and nights outside the prison, waiting for any word on the fate of their loved ones, but to no avail. To this day, the fate of thousands of Syrians—abducted at random by the regime’s militias—remains unknown. Resolving the devastating issue of prisoners who disappeared in Assad’s detention centers may take years, as hundreds of families continue to search for bodies, death certificates, or any evidence that might lead to answers.

After the fall of the Assad regime, Syrians uncovered the full extent of the prison system that had sustained tyranny in Syria for decades. Mass graves and labyrinthine detention centers were discovered buried deep in the earth. The regime had constructed an invisible, fully operational underworld—a sprawling network, a city-like typology where thousands of detainees endured daily torture and execution. Meanwhile, above ground, a contrasting yet interconnected reality was unfolding. People inhabited a world engineered by the regime’s ideology, carrying on with their lives, oblivious to the suffering beneath their feet. 

The connection between these two realities extends far beyond the ground’s surface; they are reflections of each other. The regime’s ideology links them, staging and reproducing their dynamics through architecture and deliberate urban design measures. Over time, the boundaries between these realities blur, corrupting and leaking into one another. Ultimately, they merge completely, creating a singular reality of destruction and incarceration. This amalgamation has characterized life in Syria over the past fourteen years, from the outbreak of the revolution to the fall of the regime. However, it is important to emphasize that this duality of life is not exclusive to Syria. Instead, it mirrors the state of the world and its contemporary conditions, compelling us to confront the question: “Are we all living in a constructed reality where the invisible shapes our minds and imagination, constantly suppressing us?”

Incarceration in Syria extended beyond the underground network of prisons and detention centers, permeating the country’s ambiguous economic and juridical policies. These policies undermined architecture’s role in fostering social cohesion and produced arbitrary urban design practices that mirrored the gradual decay of the country’s social structures. In this context, both architecture and urban design became tools for reinforcing hierarchies based on class, ethnicity, and sectarian divisions, enabling the regime to consolidate its dictatorship by mobilizing social groups against one another.

Now, I would like to return to the question, “How deep must we dig to see the invisible?”. The importance of this question lies, first, in the fact that people assumed there were three underground floors where detainees could be imprisoned and tortured. The sheer assumption of such a possibility is horrifying, as it implies there are no limits to how deep the regime would dig to bury its opponents. Second, the question challenges the notion of the invisible and the power of abstraction in performing oppression. 

For more than fifty years, the Assad regime's most powerful tool of oppression was forcing the Syrian population to live in a state of abstraction. By rigorously restricting access to detention centers and trial sessions, it placed torture and forced disappearances into an abstract reality, reinforcing a culture of self-surveillance among the public. Detention itself was invisible, so it lingered like a specter in the collective imagination, haunting and controlling everyday life. This specter silenced opposition, manipulated freedom of speech, and constructed a society designed to serve the regime’s ideology. Every thought and conversation was forged by the fear of abduction and death in the brutal gulags of the regime. This state of abstraction permeated every aspect of life, solidifying the regime's control through fear and uncertainty. In Syria, within the Black Box, the exercise of power is both concealed and simultaneously broadcast (exhibited) to the public in an abstract manner. In this abstraction, obedience becomes implicit. Under such conditions, the question must evolve into a more expansive inquiry: “How deep must we dig within ourselves to unearth the abstract oppression we have internalized?”