Akka

Akka is not just a coastal city. It is the meeting point between waves and walls, sea and soul, history and resistance. Every time I visit Akka with my camera, I feel like I’m tracing the fingerprints of time itself. Her old city is carved from salt and survival — alleyways that have tasted both empire and exile, but never surrendered their truth. I photograph Akka not for her postcard beauty, but for her dignified defiance. The stones of her citadel whisper to those who know how to listen. The harbor, with its ancient boats, rocks gently against the stories of generations who refused to leave. My lens follows the call of the fishermen, the echoes of the mosque and the church, the markets where Arabic still dances on every tongue. Here, life is lived in full color — bold and unashamed. The scent of sea salt mixes with cardamom and old resistance. Akka has seen conquerors come and go. But she remains rooted — a lighthouse of Palestinian identity, battered but unbroken. I photograph her arches, her windows, her shadows — not as a visitor, but as a son returning to gather what still remains. Akka teaches me that presence is power. That what endures cannot be erased. And that beauty, even under siege, finds a way to bloom. To me, Akka is not past — she is proof. That we were here. That we are still here. And that we always will be.