The Story Behind O Soul of the Soul
In the aftermath of one of the many devastating nights in Gaza, a photograph began to circulate—a haunting image of a grandfather cradling the lifeless body of his granddaughter. His hands, trembling yet firm, held her as though she was still alive, as though the warmth of her little body had not yet left him. His face bore the sorrow of generations, etched with grief and defiance, as he whispered words that transcended time and pain:
"يا روح الروح" (O soul of my soul) ‘Khaled Nabhan, also known by Abu Dia’a’’
This heart-wrenching moment embodied the enduring connection between Palestinians and their loved ones, their land, and their history. "O soul of the soul" was not just an expression of his grief; it was a declaration of the unbreakable bond that persists even in the face of loss. It was a cry that spoke of love so deep that it transcends life itself, a love rooted in the spirit of resilience, sacrifice, and a longing for freedom.
The phrase reflects the collective anguish of a people whose ties to their families and homeland remain sacred despite the ongoing violence, displacement, and oppression. It also resonates with the universal human experience of love and loss, of holding on to those we cherish even when they are gone.
O Soul of the Soul becomes a tribute not just to this single moment but to every story of love, sacrifice, and survival. It honors the resilience of the Palestinian spirit and the enduring power of memoryu. Through the images and stories shared in this project, it reminds us that even in the darkest times, the soul's connection to its beloved endures, refusing to be broken by oppression or erasure.
Named in the spirit of that poignant cry, seeks to immortalize those moments where love defies despair and where the bonds between people—whether family, community, or nation—are reaffirmed in the face of devastation. It stands as a testament to the power of love and resilience, preserving the essence of a people who continue to find strength in their unyielding connection to their roots and to one another.
On December 15th, 2024, the world did not lose just another man. It lost a force. A force that had, for so long, carried the weight of generations, the sorrow of a land, the defiance of a people who will never bow. Abu Dia’a’s passing was not the quiet end of a life lived. It was the final breath of a soul that had been stolen long before the death of his body, a soul taken by the same forces that stole his granddaughter, his home, his peace. It was the occupation that had already murdered him, piece by piece, for years before his body succumbed.
Death, for Abu Dia’a, was never just death. It was the slow unraveling of a man who had already lost his soul. The moment his granddaughter was torn from his arms, the occupation had taken what no force should ever have: his spirit. The physical violence of their deaths—her small body and his weathered hands—was merely the last punctuation in a sentence of suffering that had been written long ago.
And yet, on that final day, when his time came, it was not to the earth or to silence that he was called. It was to her. Go to her. Go to your soul.
For so long, she had been waiting. She had called out to him, her breath a quiet prayer riding the winds of a world that failed to hear. Her heart whispered his name, echoing through the time and space between them. He heard her. And he went. We, the living, have watched from the outside, helpless. We saw them on screens, their faces pixelated, their pain distorted by the distance between us. We wrote our thoughts, our reactions, our pleas, but they were never meant for us. We were ghosts in their story, unable to touch the depth of their bond. None of us were worthy of them. None of us could stand in their light. They were always destined for something greater, something eternal. And now, they are reunited.
I cannot imagine the moment when their eyes met again. When the distance between them—the years, the pain, the shattered world—melted away. How could I? How could anyone? But I know that somewhere, in that stillness where time has no grip, they stand together. Beneath a tree—perhaps the same one where he once cradled her—two souls entwined in the quiet of a reunion that no occupation, no weapon, no force could ever erase.
Touch her hair, Abu Dia’a. Let her fingers trace the edge of your beard. Remind yourselves that this, at last, is real. This reunion, this return to what was always meant to be. Not in the sky above or some distant, unreachable place. But here—in the land that bore them both, in the soil that holds their blood and their memories. What a reunion it is. What a beautiful, holy reunion.
The occupation may have taken their bodies, but it could never take their souls. They are free, finally. Not because death came for them, but because the very essence of who they were—who they are—cannot be claimed by violence. Their love, their bond, their defiance, their spirit—these cannot be destroyed. Not then. Not now. Never.
Go, Abu Dia’a. Go to her. Go to your soul.
Elsewhere, the spirit of childhood flourishes in the freedom of dreams and innocence. In Palestine, childhood blooms differently. Dreams are not frivolously thrown into the air like kites; they are carefully folded and tucked away, hidden within the chambers of the heart, shielded from a world too callous to hold them. Under the shadow of occupation, our dreams do not dissipate; they adapt. They stretch and twist, bending to fit the contours of a life under siege. But bending is not breaking.
Our spirit, forged in the crucible of oppression, refuses to fracture. The architecture of apartheid seeks to splinter us, to carve lines into our existence—walls that scar the landscape, checkpoints that choke movement, rubble that tries to erase our homes. Yet our spirit rises above, unfettered by these crude attempts at control. It drifts over the barriers and fortifications, transcending the confines of concrete and steel, reminding us that no structure, no system, can contain what refuses to be confined.
When we speak of resilience, we speak of a spirit that doesn’t just endure; it moves, adapts, and fortifies against oppression. When the world outside strips away our innocence, our spirit still stands. It becomes a refuge, a place of hidden strength that no amount of occupation can steal. It cradles children through the relentless trauma of loss, through the daily reminders that in this land, nothing—not even life itself—is guaranteed. It lives in the songs that echo through the streets, in the photographs of the fallen hung in market squares, in the whispered names of martyrs carried from one generation to the next. Even when the body is gone, the spirit persists, refusing to surrender.
For our children, this resilience becomes a lifeline. It cradles them in moments of unspeakable loss, an armor against the relentless trauma that has seeped into every corner of our land. Yet, even in this uncertainty, resilience carries our children forward, their laughter breaking through the weight of grief like sunlight through fractured glass.
How, the world asks, can a child survive in such a place? But the question itself misses the point. Survival is not the culmination of our spirit’s journey. In Palestine, childhood does not simply endure; it insists on flourishing, on being seen and recognized as a profound act of resistance. The spirit of our children does not accept survival as its limit. It rises above the rubble and the blood, declaring its existence as a rebuke to those who would erase it.
It is easy to romanticize this resilience, to hold it up as a symbol of our strength. But resilience is not a gift; it is a necessity for us. We dream of a day when resilience will no longer be our inheritance, a day when our children will not have to distinguish between the crackle of fireworks and the staccato rhythm of gunfire. We dream of a day when innocence will not be a guarded treasure but an abundant, overflowing wellspring.
Until that day, our spirit remains fortified by the roots of who we are. It is an inheritance, passed down like an heirloom, its strength drawn from the histories we carry in our bones and the futures we refuse to surrender. It is a spirit that allows us to face the unrelenting challenges of our reality without losing sight of the possibility of a different tomorrow.
This spirit lives in the land itself. It is in the quiet persistence of olive trees, whose gnarled roots clutch the earth with a tenacity that mirrors our own. It is in the cactus that lines our borders, a symbol of endurance that flourishes despite the harshness of its surroundings. It is in the laughter of children playing among ruins, their games undeterred by the shadows that loom over them.
And it is in the dreams—those fragile, luminous things that refuse to be extinguished. Our dreams are not naive; they are deliberate acts of defiance. They envision a world where checkpoints crumble into dust, where walls are remembered only as scars on a wounded history, where the occupation itself is relegated to the rubble of what once was.
The spirit of Palestine is a spirit that rises and rises again. It is not broken by loss, not silenced by violence. It carries the weight of our sorrows, yes, but it also carries the promise of our joys. It bears the bodies of our martyrs, yes, but it also bears the hopes of generations yet to come.
We speak of resilience because it is what sustains us, but we dream of liberation because it is what we deserve. Our spirit, as enduring as the land, as boundless as the horizon, does not merely survive—it insists on living, on thriving, on being. It is a spirit that will outlast walls, outlast checkpoints, outlast the occupation itself. It is the spirit of Palestine, unyielding, unbroken, and eternal.
Collective Punishment: At 2:00 a.m., the Israeli regime stormed the Jalazon refugee camp with 200 heavily armed soldiers and a bulldozer, ruthlessly demolishing the three-story home of Sheikh Nakhleh. This was not just a building; it was a sanctuary for six families and three generations of Palestinian refugees who had already endured a lifetime of displacement and oppression.
This home was not a weapon, nor was it a political symbol. It was a place of safety, a source of stability in the midst of relentless turmoil. And yet, for 13 long years, it stood under the looming shadow of demolition orders—a constant reminder of the regime’s systematic efforts to erase Palestinian existence.
Two weeks prior to this act of collective punishment, Sheikh Nakhleh was forcibly removed from his home by the Israeli authorities. Without charge, without trial, he was thrown into his "second home"—an Israeli prison, where he has spent over two decades of his life in and out of captivity. The message delivered to his family was chillingly clear: their home was next, a calculated act of vengeance intended to collectively punish and break the spirit of a family and a community.
The destruction of Sheikh Nakhleh’s home is not an isolated incident; it is part of a wider strategy of ethnic cleansing, land theft, and collective punishment that targets Palestinians at every level of their existence. The act is a brutal reminder that in the eyes of the occupier, even the simplest aspects of life—a home, a family, a childhood—are not spared from destruction.
This is not just the story of one family. It is the story of countless Palestinians who have been subjected to the same violent uprooting, the same systematic cruelty, and the same relentless attempts to erase their presence and identity. Yet, despite the bulldozers, the soldiers, and the prisons, the spirit of resistance persists. It is a spirit rooted in the belief that no occupation, no matter how oppressive, can extinguish the enduring Palestinian right to freedom, dignity, and the land they call home.
Grief: This was not just a house; it was a sanctuary for six families, a place of laughter, memories, and shelter across generations. Now, it’s a pile of rubble, torn apart in the dead of night. Ahmad’s silhouette, framed by the doorway, carries the weight of his family’s grief—a quiet sorrow for the walls that once embraced them and the life that will never be the same. Yet even in this moment of loss, his presence speaks of something unbroken. Through the rubble and the pain, there is resilience—a refusal to let grief define them.
Shadows of Separation: Ayham gazes through the broken frame, his silhouette merging with the shadows, as the apartheid wall scars the land, severing Jerusalem from the West Bank. The imposing concrete barrier not only divides geography but also embodies the stolen freedom and fragmented dreams of generations.
Traumatic stress disorder: Each step the children take up the hill brings them closer to the face of the apartheid wall—a grim monolith of confinement that defines their every horizon. For them, there is no 'post' in the trauma; their existence is a perpetual present of restricted movement, stolen childhood, and dreams stifled by the occupation.
IOF Watch Tower: Two children sit in the shadow of the Qalandia checkpoint, their quiet moment swallowed by the watchtower’s gaze. The wall looms, heavy with silence, as if waiting to speak a truth no one wants to hear or believe. Everything here feels paused, yet nothing ever stops.
Kiosk of martyrs: Instead of standing in front of kiosks selling doughnuts and ice cream, children in Palestine stand in front of kiosks plastered with posters commemorating the martyrs of Palestine. They sell necklaces and framed photos of those who have fallen, ascended … immortalizing their memory for the living.
Freedom Fighters: Growing up in a state of constant violence, Palestinian children and teenagers support each other, form strong bonds, and find joy and happiness wherever they can. They are exposed to trauma that can leave a lasting impact on their lives. The violence they face may lead some to aspire to become Freedom Fighters, while others are left with the scars of a childhood and loss.
The Three Musketeers: Their smiles hold defiance, an unspoken pact to protect one another in a world that keeps erasing their childhood. In their togetherness, there’s a fleeting glimpse of freedom—untouched, yet surrounded.
What did the children of Gaza do to you?
Hamzah From Masaffer Yatta
Kids of the Flag: Pride, like Palestinian stories and tragedies, is an inheritance that is sometimes passed on unconsciously, from grandfather to grandson, from mother to her unborn child. These high kids' faces, galvanized by the crowd on the day of Mawlid al nabi, carry a legacy that can only be transmitted through the eyes.
Guard Up: Children grow up learning to keep their guard up, their innocence shadowed by an unrelenting vigilance. Every glance, every step carries the weight of a land that has taught them survival before play.
Innocence
Freedom
Spirit: What is our spirit?
What is the spirit of childhood?
What informs a child’s spirit? Around the world and in Palestine, what’s the contrast/ binary/ dichotomy? How is spirit made and moulded? How does it adapt, change? Is it shattered? Who shatters it?
How is a child’s spirit meant to inform their childhood?
Is there such a thing as collective spirit? How does this impact childhood in the context of a designated time, space and place?
What is the weight of childhood? Is it strong? When and where is it weak? Is it joyful? Is it informed by sorrow and pain?
Who picks up the pieces of a shattered spirit? How does a community rebuild, reinform and restore a spirit?
Can all spirits be restored? At what point is a spirit left behind? Do people choose to forget, move on, ignore - how does the international ‘community’ respond to the shattering of childhood spirit overseas?