This image was captured during the ongoing Israeli war on Gaza, amid a systematic campaign of destruction that has deliberately targeted civilian life—including religious sites like mosques and churches. The scene takes place in Rafah, in southern Gaza, where an entire mosque was reduced to rubble.

Despite being displaced, traumatized, and under constant threat, the Palestinian worshippers—survivors of genocide—gathered atop the ruins of their mosque to pray in unshaken faith. That moment struck me deeply. It was not just prayer; it was defiance. It was spiritual resistance in the face of annihilation.

I climbed a nearby partially destroyed building to document this powerful scene from above. I wanted to show not only the physical destruction, but the emotional and spiritual depth of these people—the way they preserved their dignity, unity, and connection to God even as the world collapsed around them. That is what makes this image speak louder than words: faith amidst ruins, and a people who refuse to be erased.

They bowed not in peace—but in pain. Every forehead touching the rubble carries a heartbreak, a hunger, a cry no one heard. These worshippers are not whole—they are wounded, crushed by loss, and suffocating under the weight of genocide. Yet still, they turned to God. Their prayers weren’t calm—they were desperate. Not a moment of quiet faith, but a scream from the soul. I am the witness of broken bodies, but not unbroken belief.

One of the most painful challenges is that I am not just documenting suffering—I am living it. I’ve been shot multiple times by Israeli snipers while covering protests and war zones, even while wearing my press vest. I carry scars in my body, but also in my memory. I lost part of my family in airstrikes. My home was destroyed. I am not separate from the story—I am part of it. Working under these conditions means witnessing death while carrying grief. It’s the pain of photographing someone else's loss while still mourning your own. It’s continuing to press the shutter while your heart is breaking. And still, we push forward—with limited tools, under siege, with little protection—because telling the truth is a duty. As a Palestinian journalist, I face attempts to silence and discredit me, but I believe that even if my body falls, the truth I documented will remain.

If I weren’t photographing my homeland, I would still be a photographer—but one who travels the world to document human stories. It has always been my dream to become an international photojournalist, capturing struggles, resilience, and beauty wherever they exist. I believe every person has a story that deserves to be seen and heard. But no matter where I go, Gaza will always be my starting point, my compass. What I witnessed there shaped my soul and sharpened my lens. My journey may take me across borders, but my purpose remains the same: to give voice to the voiceless, and to make the unseen visible.

For me, composition is not about making tragedy beautiful—it’s about making people feel. When I frame an image, I’m thinking about how to guide the viewer's heart, not just their eyes. In moments of chaos and devastation, I search for clarity—not to aestheticize pain, but to honor it.

Good composition allows truth to hit harder. It helps the world see what we see, feel what we feel. I’m not decorating destruction; I’m inviting reflection. Every line, every shadow, every layer of rubble becomes part of the story I want the world to remember—not just visually, but emotionally.

I’m inspired by photographers like James Nachtwey and Don McCullin, who showed that images can carry truth with power and compassion. But above all, I’m inspired by Palestinian photographers—those who risk everything to document our reality. And most of all, by the people I photograph. Their strength is my deepest source of inspiration.