Digital Story: Fatima photo diary
Images from Gaza: “Let My Photos Scream for Me”
Fatima Hassouna, a photojournalist and Plan International youth advocate, captured life in Gaza until an airstrike killed her in April. Her final images and words are a powerful testament to her vision and strength.
Before Fatima was killed, she shared with her husband, Motaz, that if she died, she wanted her photos to be shared: “Let them scream for me, tell my story, expose all I have seen and all I could not save.” With her family’s permission, we can now share her last collection, entitled A City of Ghosts.
When 24-year-old Fatima Hassouna picked up her camera in Gaza, she wasn’t just taking photos – she was revealing the truth. Through her lens, the world saw schools turned to rubble, homes flattened and lives upended by relentless conflict.
“I am not always happy when I take such photos,” she wrote in her last project for Plan International. “On the contrary, these scenes deeply sadden me and eat away at my heart. But my only consolation is the hope that this generation will one day stand against injustice.”
A witness to truth
Sharing pictures of Rashad Al-Shawa Cultural Center before and after its destruction, Fatima wrote, “The first moment I entered the place after the bombing, I felt like crying because they took something from me that they had no right to take. They stole a genuine and beautiful part of my memory. But I know deep down they cannot really take it away from me, because this place is part of my identity – steadfast, no matter how circumstances change.”
Fatima was killed on April 16 when an Israeli airstrike hit her home in northern Gaza. Ten other family members, including her pregnant sister, were also killed.
Prior to her death, Fatima was determined to hold on to hope of a resolution to the war after a ceasefire was announced in January. “I am looking forward to my life after the war, and I am confident that beautiful things will come,” she said at the time.
Her husband’s final tribute
Fatima’s husband, Motaz, shared a moving tribute to Fatima after her death.
“Fatima was not just a photographer,” he wrote. “She was a witness, a witness to oppression, to wounds, to the unbearable. She walked toward death with steady feet, as if embodying a truth that does not flee, does not falsify, and does not retreat.”
A City of Ghosts: Fatima’s photo diary
Fatima shared, in own words, what these eight images meant to her.
1. A city in ruins
This is my city and what it looks like today after 18 months of brutal conflict: sandy streets, demolished homes, nonexistent facilities. Every place we loved has turned into a vast emptiness, and this city has become a city of ghosts.
This is Al-Mukhabarat Street in the northern Gaza Strip – it used to be one of the most vibrant streets, as it led you to the beautiful sea, past the Al-Mathaf Hotel, and other places people enjoyed visiting here.
But today I can see the scars of destruction, after fires ravaged this once busy street – it has now transformed into something else – it took me a while to even recognize it when I got here.
Every landmark in this city has changed. They have taken from us all the things we loved!
2. Colour in the dust, the toy stall
My Gaza is one of the most contradictory places in this world. Amidst brutal destruction and devastation, you stumble across this stall filled with colourful children’s toys, standing in stark contrast to the dull colours of devastation and death – a bold defiance of oppression. There will still be hope for a better future.
I took this photo because it tells me that even if they kill all the children, other children will be born, carrying these toys in their hands and living their childhood as it should be, one day. The daily life of this city never ceases to amaze me – the resilience of its people, the life on the streets just days after it was bombed to the ground. Individuals whom the daily risk of death cannot deter them from going out and living.
To me, this is the equation of “the pink against the gray.”
3. A suffering generation
Nothing here is sadder to see than the state of the children in this city. Yesterday, my friend was telling me about her niece, Doaa. She said, “She was telling me about their days in the south. She said, ‘Imagine, Auntie, I used to go to the charity kitchen feeling so ashamed.’ To this day, she’s upset with herself for having to go and stand in line.”
Many children are carrying burdens heavier than their years. At a time when they should be in schools or playgrounds, they are instead living in their schools and facing war with a small plate in hand and bare feet.
4. The long wait (at Al-Sudaniya beach)
This photo is from the Al-Sudaniya beach area; it’s a spot where planes used to come to drop aid supplies. These two men were sitting on a large sand dune, waiting for a plane to come. They waited for a long time, since six in the morning, along with many others who were also waiting. I cannot guess what conversation passed between them, but silence alone would have been enough!
Perhaps the sorrow they felt at what they were witnessing spoke louder than a thousand words. Maybe one of them had lost his home or someone dear to him. Maybe they were guessing when the aid plane would arrive, counting the hours. They might have considered every possibility, but on that particular day, the plane never came, and everyone returned empty-handed.
5. The long walk back
On the way back from the long day, waiting for the aerial aid drops that never came, everyone returned disappointed, having received nothing, returning home empty-handed...
Many gathered firewood on the walk back, which remains the only alternative to cooking gas, and carried it back to their homes, instead of bags of aid and food. But what will you do if you have fire but no food?
6. A history of female courage
For entire generations, women have been the primary nurturers, the legends of the struggle, and the seeds from which a tree of strength and resilience has grown. For ages, women have raised their children, instilling in them a steadfast belief and the idea that liberation begins with small actions – perhaps a keffiyeh.
In the same vein, I have always seen the keffiyeh as the symbol of Palestine, the lady, and we are her children, guided by the belief we must believe in a better future for ourselves that resistance is a continuous and worthwhile endeavour.
7. The unforgotten artist, Mahasen
This is the talented artist, and my good friend, Mahasen Al-Khatib, who was killed in the airstrikes. Mahasen was a role model for me and for many others; she didn’t let this war stop her work, she kept going.
She used to sit in the attic of her house, pictured here destroyed after an attack, and draw beautiful pictures, using them as her voice, the voice of the Palestinians – speaking to the world. She never loved the spotlight, but she wished that everyone would hear about her and know her through her art. She often said, “I want the whole world to talk about these drawings by Mahasen. I want the whole world to see what I do.” Mahasen worked hard and strived tirelessly for her dream of becoming a global digital artist. She trained many students, especially girls, sharing her skills.
The place where this photo was taken no longer exists. The house is gone, the attic is gone, and Mahasen and her dreams are gone. But her wish came true, her art lives on, and many around the world now know that Mahasen was killed as she pursued her dream.
8. A stadium of families
This is the Yarmouk Stadium; in days gone by it was a place filled with the cheers of crowds as they enjoyed watching football matches here. On these stands, we used to witness the excitement, joy, and chants of fans whenever there was a game on.
Now it has been turned into a camp for the displaced, for families forced to flee their homes as they have been destroyed, or risk being targeted. Women who have lost their homes sit on these stands – some have lost their husbands, children, or other family members, each carrying her own story.
These women sit on the stands where they now literally live. These stands, no wider than a square metre, are where entire families must sleep. Every now and then, they sit in this small space, staring out, into the distance. I imagine that they are staring at what feels like the towering piles of their worries before them.
In the tent, there is no privacy, no safety, no warmth and no dignified living. I cannot imagine how the women I see here, with frail bodies… suffering from malnourishment and doing their best to feed and care for their families, can live in a place like this, where tents collapse every time it rains.
How can entire families live comfortably in such cramped conditions? How do they carry on with their lives? How have the sounds of cheers and joy heard here less than two years ago turned into tears and sighs of exhaustion?
In the tent, there is nothing but weariness!
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