"العائلة" مفردةٌ متكاملة، جاءت في تكوينٍ متكاملٍ لصورة، صورةٍ تشعرُ من خلالها بكلّ شيء، الدفء، الأُلفة، اليدِ التي تصنعُ بحُب، والابتسامةِ التي تُعينُ هذهِ اليد، والقلبَ الكبيرَ الذي يجمعُ الكُلَّ ولا يكلُّ عن العطاء، كلُّهم تحتَ سماءٍ واحدة، تحرسهم ملائكةُ النّور، وأشجارُ الزيتون. هذا العمل هو أول توثيق يمكنُ لكاميرتي أن تشهدَ لي به، وتعطيني لقب "مصورة" من خلاله.

Photographer highlight: @fatma_hassona2

I remembered “Give me my freedom, release my hand” in the voice of Umm Kulthum. This is our freedom spun with barbed wire cloth, on a white sky, a people whole every morning wears it, seeks it, remembers it and lives it so that it does not be forgotten! This country, it is me and you, it's not you alone, and it's not me alone, this country comes back only with us, we who beat it with our blood, and give it before it gives it to us, and this kofia, our eternal reminder that it is ours, even if destruction is what our eyes see in it, but we love it, we love it as no one loves it

“عشانك” (For You) Descriptions and names for emotions vary across the world; people define them differently, feel them uniquely, and even express them in their own ways. Yet, whenever someone speaks of the concept of safety, my mind wanders back to Gaza; my homeland, the memory of tender moments, and the time and place of everything I’ve ever loved in my life. I feel this emotion intensely whenever I recall it. I see it in every image I try to create; in the clasp of hands, in the meeting of lovers, in the footsteps of friends, and in a homeland vast in spirit despite its narrow borders. To me, safety means having something that calls you to keep going. It could be a person, a place, or a homeland. It is something that makes you carry on because you know it’s always here; “عشانك” (“for you.”) In a land torn by war, I believe that the feeling of safety sometimes vanishes, and at other times, it intensifies depending on many factors. It fades in the face of approaching death, in moments of displacement, in one’s final breaths. Yet it grows stronger whenever someone’s hand is beside you, even in your last moments. The feeling of safety increases in the gaze of gentle eyes as you escape the war, or in the instant you realize you want this land, even if it’s the worst of lands. You love it as it is, you yearn for everything within it. And in your escape, those same hands accompany you. The ones that pulled you from beneath the rubble, the ones there with you in what you thought were your final moments. “عشانك” (‘For You’) is the word that, in my view, mirrors the essence of safety; the title of all these moments. It is what I have seen embodied in “Gaza” the city of love and war. My huge Thanks to my biggest supporter @thesaara7

I think a not: what will children remember about their childhood?

Repeated days For the people of tents.

Return to Gaza.

Emotions intertwined between exhaustion, joy, happiness, and ecstasy. This earth was a dream, this path and these steps were a dream. And today, it becomes a reality that you can touch with your own eyes, living its bliss as if you had never once experienced the joy of being this happy!

Dream became true Gaza🩵

O passers-by for our bodies, our meat, and our humanity, never messing, do not open your eyes, do not seek the metaphor even in our death, we are not dead, nor ghosts you see.

When Al-Jawaheri said, "Sadness may kill his loved ones, they are away from him, so how of those whose loved ones have lost," I realized what he said when I looked at this picture, I do not know how much force I paid to take this picture, but now I can indicate to you the feelings in it, on the years of sadness, on the burning that is not caused by fire, but by a lot and repetition, repeated letdowns, the repetition of blood, and the repetition of black color in the same painting! This bitter farewell will remain forever, a scar in time and space, will never be healed from the slight of loss.

About the sadness in two eyes, about two orphaned eyes that express the middle of the tragedy, about the tragedy of carrying all of you in each other, about some of you who remain in the heart of the house, about the house that cry and does not talk, about the crying reduced in silence, about the silence that became hat happened, about our oppression on the day when the invaders became rabid dogs, about dogs that kill a human being, about the man who does not sleep, does not eat, does not drink, does not live, does not dream, does not breathe, about the man who just killed , displaces, starves, gets hungry, thirs, cries, screams, screams, escapes, escapes, and escapes .

There are no faces in what you see, the hungry statures cut everything, I look like an old dish in the streets, me and my brother's bare feet, and my mother's deposed heart, we revolve around us, we search for some life, some safety, some place shelters us, we walk until the pain will kill us, and we find nothing but nothingness in front of us, and death from the rest of the directions. I have never been able to get close to a face of a harm, I have never been the eye that monitors people who have turned into breaking news, so you see me standing far, picking up what scratches my heart, and go, I don’t even review my photos, lest I die from the life we live, I leave everything as it is, so that the world sees it. Here you and I can see and understand, how man dies by coercion, and how a city can swing with its children like Hader Batash waves, hoping a little, or a lot, to understand, how one becomes prey to oppression, and death is tired. “Photos from the July 7 displacement from Al-Tuffah neighborhood to the industry area”

For the past six years, Abd Al-Hady, a young man in his 20s, has been working in the pottery craft. It wasn’t just a job for him, it was a tradition and craftsmanship that was passed down through generations in his family. But then the genocide came, and everything was interrupted. The market faced shortages, job opportunities vanished, and income became scarce. Abd Al-Hady faced a tough challenge… how could he make a living in such difficult time? With few options available, Abd Al-Hady began repairing pottery instead of making it. Despite the challenges, he never lost his passion for his craft. He longs for the days when he could be creative and make pottery instead of just fixing it, hoping that those good old days will return. A story told by @fatma_hassona2 through her words and visual creatives, she hopes to bring a better understanding to the rest of the world of what everyday life looks like under israeli occupation and genocidal brutality.

We make councils from the streets for us, we sit with confidence and say "the house is the house of our father", and this country is our country and the country of our fathers, we do not care who you are, from where, the important thing is that Palestine brings us together, and our insistence that Palestine be ours, for us alone has no participation in it.

How can a city be a quiet sea deep inside it, showing layers of concrete waves? How do small feet walk so quiet and don’t pay attention to this huge monster looking at them?

In Jabalia Camp, at the beginning of the road to Jabalia Camp, you will find a long street, ending in a bombed building, in front of which is a carob seller, from whom people buy in order to quench thirst, and because nothing in the city contains sugar, he fills cups, one by one, indifferent to the ceilings that have descended behind him. One by one, people are here, loving life, uncle. This photo was taken two weeks before the invasion of Jabalia. The place was bustling with voices and people’s bodies. Now I do not think that any of them remained, but will the carob seller remain in another place? Or he comes back and insists, “Do you drink carob, uncle?” -Fatim

“For his children, and in order for the house not to starve, the old go out in the height of the heat, turning a blind eye to the burning sun, their heads burning with oppression, going out long distances, carrying anything that may give them a normal life, the life of “human”, spiring in the earth, it does not matter how much or where I see Gaza here, in the eyes, in the tan of the face, in the features of fatigue, and the wrinkles of poverty, I can read something of what these eyes say, but I do not dare to look at it completely, does the world dare to do so, and read what we say? This picture is one of the most weeping pictures, I feel that my conscience hurts so far, I can’t look at his face or features because everything in it screams tiredness, and I would no longer endure all this misery in the faces of the people of my city, it hurts so much what I see, it hurts to the extent.” - Fatma Hassona This photo was taken by @fatma_hassona2 in May 2024 during heavy occupation terror in the Gaza Strip of Palestine.

This shit is the title of the stage we are going through, after more than 210 days of war, everyone is tired, everyone is waiting either for his inevitable death, or the end of the war and salvation from this long waiting and systematic humiliation that the war has imposed on everyone. I can only feel how oppressive and helpless they are and the weight of what they carry in this picture, the situation is the same here, and disgUST is the master of the situation. “ This photo is from one of the shelters in gaza"

On this earth, the people of the earth, its owners, and their insistence on being here, like olive trees, steadfast, steadfast.

📍Haidar Abd Al-Kader Al-Ghazali, a 19-year-old from northern Gaza, has loved poetry since he was five. His mother took him to poetry workshops and theaters, always waiting patiently and supporting him without hesitation. For 14 years, Haidar lived and learned poetry until he mastered writing and improvising it. Poetry became an inseparable part of him, something he lived and breathed. However, the war stopped Haidar from completing his BA studies and achieving his dream of performing on international stages. But nothing could stop his poetry! Haidar says, "I love to write because nothing else can describe what I am going through. Writing is the only thing that eases my pain. I write because what we are going through is bigger than all of us." Haidar writes his diary about the war, capturing what happens in words that convey the pictures he sees every day. He tells the world what is happening without any embellishment, sharing the truth as he lives it in Gaza, asking for a world that is just a little better and more livable.

“In war, in peace, together.” On February 27, this couple married a year after the engagement, after I was scheduled for the wedding last November, but the war prevented it, and it separated near and far. And here in Gaza, we try every day to live, because we only have that, and that was part of those attempts. "War knows when it will end, let's stay away from each other, we get married by war, and without a wedding because of the dignity of the martyrs." Without weddings, no zagarid, nor any kind of celebration, only two happen in one house, who believe each other of fear together, and divide the bite between them, until God authorizes war to end. -Fatim

I see Gaza here, in the eyes, in the tan of the face, in the features of fatigue, and the wrinkles of poverty, I can read something of what these eyes say, but I do not dare to look at it completely, does the world dare to do so, and read what we say?