The late Palestinian writer and author Khalil al-Sakakini, his wife Sultana Abdo, and their son Sari. This picture was taken in Jerusalem in 1920
The late Palestinian writer and author Khalil al-Sakakini, his wife Sultana Abdo, and their son Sari. This picture was taken in Jerusalem in 1920
From Sami Tafesh
These tall, fortress-like houses are built primarily of locally quarried stone (often with thick lower walls for strength and defense). They feature rows of small arched or rectangular windows (sometimes with shutters), which provide light, ventilation, and limited views while maintaining privacy and security. The design is practical for the mountainous terrain: Vertical construction saves scarce flat land for agriculture, the height aids defense against raids, and the solid stone helps with temperature regulation in the highland climate.
I was documenting a children’s film screening in Gaza, trying, as I often do, to steal a moment before a child realizes he/she is being seen. Then, from just behind me, came a shy, almost inaudible voice: “Can you take a picture of us… together?”
I turned and found two little girls watching the shutter of my camera, as if they had discovered something of themselves there before I had.
For a moment, I no longer knew who was photographing whom; I was following them with my eyes, while they were searching for their own presence in mine.
Perhaps, in the end, all we ask of one another is this: I see you. And perhaps that is how we remain.
I took the photograph, and was left with a question: Do we make photographs, or do they find us when we are finally ready to see?