Speaking Ocean
- Georga Holly
- Sep 29
- 6 min read
Written by Vera Noon, Founder at ArchiMare consulting; PhD student at the University of Edinburgh (Honor Frost Foundation Scholar)
Marhaba!
My name is Vera Noon, I'm a polyglot, and I'm on a mission to speak Ocean.
I was born and raised surrounded by the Saudi desert, yet it is the essence of the cedars that flows in my veins. My family hails from the villages of the Great Mount Lebanon - our heritage carved in stone and our identity rooted in soil. So, how did the ocean find me, becoming the very centre of my life?
Perhaps my last name holds the answer. “Noon” stems from the letter Nun “𐤍”, the fourteenth character of the Phoenician alphabet, representing the sound “N”. Etymologically, Nun is linked to the ancient Semitic word for “fish” and was sometimes associated with larger sea creatures like whales. In fact, Jonah – the prophet swallowed by a “great fish” – is referred to a “tha lnoon” in the holy Quran, meaning “the one of the whale”.
Besides that, nothing in my early life whispered “ocean”, yet it somehow became my Ariadne’s thread, stitching together my professional and personal journey, weaving a connection to the sea and to its rich cultural heritage.
Join me in my ongoing attempt to speak the language(s) of the sea! By designing, dreaming, immersing, crafting and educating, I’ll be communicating WITH the ocean, FOR the ocean.
SPACE and the architecture of memory.
The first language I learnt was the language of space. As an Architecture student, I designed a place that hosted the stories of the Mediterranean Sea, choosing none other than the ancient city of Tyre as my protagonist. My senior project sought to understand how spatial design can reconnect the people of Tyre with their coastal cultural heritage, and bridge the physical divide caused by human intervention.
The answer took the shape of an Underwater Archaeology Museum, which articulates space, light, and nature in the service of Tyre’s rich maritime history. The main monument blended into the historic fabric of the city through its subtle materials, volumes and human scale. It extended to a floating marine platform by a spectacular tensile hanging bridge, evoking ancient traditional sails. This museum aimed to reconnect visitors to the Mediterranean Sea through physical and visual immersion in its maritime heritage, in addition to the reintegration of traditional “souks” that revive artisanal crafts and practices.
Through this project, I discovered the great and versatile Honor Frost, a dancer, artist, writer, diver and archaeologist who fascinated me by her passion for underwater archaeology and her mission to preserve the submerged heritage of the Eastern Mediterranean. Her legacy accompanied me throughout my academic journey, and to this day, through the continuous support of the Honor Frost Foundation.
Beyond monuments, I realised that our cities also needed to rebuild their connections with the sea. Moving from architecture to urban design, my work focused on reshaping coastal towns and marine promenades as public spaces that safeguard natural and cultural heritage, support local economies and honour maritime identities. But soon enough, I came to see that solving maritime issues from the land was not an adequate approach: Ocean challenges required Ocean solutions.
So, through an Erasmus Mundus programme, I studied Marine Spatial Planning, a discipline that was my portal to all things Ocean. Marine Spatial Planning became a new language: a spatial and temporal management tool that unites sea users around shared visions. Through inclusive communication and careful planning, it helps steer away from conflicts and devise synergies between uses and activities at sea. Marine Spatial Planning is at the heart of ocean governance, integrating cultural and natural heritage within broader sustainability goals.
DREAMS and the poetry of the unconscious.
As I moved away from the sea, absence began to manifest. My nights were filled with dolphins and whales, beaches and lighthouses, captured in dramatic frames. Rooms filled with water, endless coastal skylines, and hidden beaches were all theatres of my unconscious mind, thirsty for a life by the sea.
You may wonder, “How can dreams be a language?” My dreams started forming familiar places, woven into an interconnected storyline, where both my fantasies and my fears crystallised.
Even in my subconscious, the sea is my safe place. My few lucid dream experiences consisted of redirecting my falls – a recurrent nightmare – into the sea. Whenever I dreamt of falling, instead of waking up in distress, I am now able to splash into the sea and pursue my nightly adventures.
In my dreams, I also witnessed violence: the Lebanese coastal skyline under attack was too frequent and paralleled the ongoing conflict in the region. The taste of saltwater – a rare sensorial occurrence in dreams – mingled with Mediterranean fragrances such as mint and lavender.
Are dreams premonitions, or simply a manifestation of our subliminal desires? I’m not sure yet. But there, I have a superpower. There, I can breathe in water.
FREEDIVING and the dialect of depth.
2020: The year of rupture.
For most, it spells “COVID19”.
For the Lebanese, it echoes trauma from our triple crisis: economic collapse, pandemic, and the tragic Beirut Port explosion.
For me, it read “escape”.
The Beirut Port explosion tore down our capital city, our cultural heritage, but also the foundational structure of our society. This explosion took away an entire generation’s hope for a better future, leading to another mass exodus of youthful talent. Beirut, once a flourishing capital of maritime trade has – once again – turned into a ghost city, with nothing but hollow shells, troubled souls and broken families. Most tragically, death stole my young cousin Joe, a civil defence volunteer who fought the very fire that led to his passing. Going through this loss was the straw that broke the camel’s back: I decided to leave.
Also in 2020, I learnt freediving and found it to be a silent refuge from the chaos above. There, the stillness underwater allowed me to listen and observe: the dialect of depth awaited. The crackles of submarine springs, the curious gaze of redcoat fish hidden under crevices, and the mating dances of the Thalassoma Pavo – my favourite Mediterranean fish – all became the syntax of this underwater world.
Freediving means being alone with yourself and the sea, trusting this massive entity with your life, and learning to humbly respect it and its creatures. I will forever be grateful to he who introduced me to the depths of the sea – and ultimately, of myself: You know who you are.
I escaped 2020 underwater first. Then, I fled on land, moving to France. Colmar was a new chapter, a healing process, yet an ocean-deprived one. Far from the Mediterranean, a new absence settled.
ART and the palette of feelings.
While I've been a self-didactic artist since as long as I can remember, the ocean only recently found its way to my brush. It was longing that drew the sea into my canvas, with photography, painting, and mixed media becoming my vocabulary. Articulating pigments and matter, I surrounded myself with the sea: My apartment, nestled between the German Black Forest and the French Vosges mountains, now seeps from the Mediterranean palette. From sandstone textures, olive oil flavours, and jasmine fragrance, the ocean’s heritage accompanies me daily.
EDUCATION and the anatomy of change.
People often ask me: “What is a marine expert doing so far from the sea?”
Well, unlike marine biology or oceanography, I can do marine policy, planning, and education from a distance. In fact, a big part of my work is centred around translating Ocean Heritage to a diverse audience – both in coastal and landlocked areas. Through education, I work not only to speak the ocean language myself, but to transmit it to others, helping them learn it, internalise it and act upon it.
The main research topic I am addressing at the moment (via my ongoing PhD programme) is the integration of ocean heritage in education and broader Ocean Literacy initiatives. Why should people know and care about Ocean Heritage? How can they learn about it, and what inspires them to protect it?
I aim to understand the learning and communication pathways that make Ocean Heritage relevant to East Mediterranean communities, helping them reclaim their marine heritage, preserve their coastal stories and rebuild their collective narratives.
Towards a new alphabet
I often say I speak five languages, all imperfectly. But together, they are slowly forming a template for a potential alphabet of the ocean: one shaped by senses, memories and expression.
In the end, my Phoenician ancestors once carried alphabets across the seas. Perhaps I, too, am composing a new one.
A language of the ocean.
A voice for its heritage.
V.
Nice article Vera!