Safad

Safad is a city that hovers — not only in altitude, but in spirit. Perched high in the hills of the Galilee, it feels less like a town and more like a prayer whispered into the wind. Through my lens, Safad reveals itself in layers of mist, memory, and melancholy. The old stones speak. You hear them if you listen closely while walking its alleys — uneven, weathered, drenched in the footsteps of centuries. My camera lingers on those doors, those arches, those sealed windows that once framed the lives of Palestinian families now scattered to the winds. The silence here is not empty — it is sacred, mournful, and full. In Safad, the light is softer. It moves gently across Ottoman balconies and abandoned courtyards, revealing more than it illuminates. I photograph its quiet — not to freeze time, but to respect it. The spiritual pulse of the city, once a center of mystics and scholars, still hums beneath the surface, hidden from the casual eye. Every photo I take here is a form of resistance against erasure. A reclaimed fragment. A testimony. I do not document Safad as a tourist — I witness it as a son of Palestine, searching for what remains of a city once full of life, song, and community. And so I raise my lens — not just to capture beauty, but to tell the world: Safad was, and still is.