Words for Fátima Hassouna
Place Your Soul in Your Hand, and Walk
by M. Lane
There was a fleeting instant — just the briefest flicker of light passing through the lens. You were there, standing in the desert dust, among ruins and echoes, capturing the everyday: that quiet miracle that persists amid death, injustice, and hardship. You bore witness to a people in flames, yet unyielding.
You smiled. You waited patiently for the precise moment — the heartbeat of time — to freeze the world in a single image. You wanted that fragment of truth to cut through the chest, reach the heart, and become testimony. A cry. Your photography was never art for art’s sake: it was resistance. It was a protest against those who harm, against the blind violence of steel, against the soulless machinery that destroys and forgets.
Your life, though brief, held centuries of truth. In your gaze lived the scent of olives, of laundry swaying in the wind, of bread broken and shared, of a sea set alight by ancient suns. That blue sea, where cries and freedom become indistinguishable.
And on the day they took your life — along with your family’s — it wasn’t only your body they tried to silence: it was one more spark that rose from the ashes of this world. Because they didn’t know — they couldn’t know — that flesh can burn, but not ideas. Souls that walk firmly upon the land that is theirs — yesterday, today, tomorrow, and always — cannot be erased.
In memory of Fátima Hassouna, photojournalist.
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