Al Quds Jerusalem

Jerusalem is not just a city I photograph — it is the pulse beneath my skin, the scent of my childhood, the echo of my ancestors’ footsteps in stone-paved alleys. Al-Quds is mine not because I possess it — but because it possesses me. Through my lens, I do not seek angles — I seek truths. The golden dome, yes — radiant as ever. But also the worn hands of the olive vendor at Herod’s Gate, the boy balancing dreams and bread in the narrow souq, the silent resilience etched into every limestone wall. I return again and again to the same places — Bab al-Amoud, the rooftops of the Old City, the forgotten courtyards of Talbiya and Qatamon. Not because I’ve run out of sites, but because Jerusalem is infinite. Each visit, each frame, reveals something new: a shadow, a crack, a memory that had been waiting to resurface. I photograph the living — not just the landmark. The sigh of a grandmother visiting Al-Aqsa. The laugh of boys playing in the streets with no playground. The call to prayer mingling with church bells and birdsong at dawn. This is the Jerusalem I carry. This is the Al-Quds I defend. And though occupation suffocates it, tries to erase its stories and rewrite its names — my camera resists. Every image is a declaration: We are still here. Every frame is a prayer: Let the world not forget. For me, Jerusalem is not a project. It is home. The place of my birth, my return, and, one day, my rest.

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