What makes the image of Palestinian doctor Hussam Abu Safiya walking through the rubble of Kamal Adwan Hospital in northern Gaza toward two Israeli tanks so iconic? Is it the universal elements of human tragedy that transcend geographical and temporal boundaries? Or is it the specific context, both geographical and temporal, that makes it a profound and accurate representation of the Gazan epic and the conditions of occupied Palestine in late December 2024, when the photo was taken?
Part of the answer lies in the fact that the image encapsulates both dimensions: it is anchored in its unique space and time, yet it transcends them. It captures a moment of extraordinary cruelty that is at once universally human and distinctly Palestinian. It is the moment when a doctor emerges from the ruins of his destroyed hospital, after the killing or deportation of his patients and staff, and walks in his white coat toward the perpetrators of these crimes – Israeli soldiers entrenched in armored machines of death atop the rubble.
Closer examination of the image reveals other elements that deepen its meaning. We see the doctor’s figure captured from behind as he moves against the primal instinct of self-preservation or any personal logic of salvation. He traverses the wreckage of houses, cars, hospital rooms strewn with broken equipment, shards of glass, and remnants of fabric clinging to shattered balconies.
His path leads to two tanks positioned on the left. The first tank, though physically closer, appears dull, bathed in sunlight streaming from the void left by the destroyed buildings. This light isolates it from the rest of the scene. The second tank, larger and more ominous, looms menacingly, as if barring access to this desolate space.
Dressed in his white lab coat, with his Palestinian identity, Hussam Abu Safiya approaches the Israeli tanks. This critical moment, captured by photographer Muhannad al-Moqayyed, bears witness to the doctor's temporary survival and serves as a testament to the barbarity of the besiegers.
The iconicity of the image, however, lies not only in its explicit content, but also in the layers of stories it contains: the story of the doctor and his hospital, the story of the two tanks and the devastation they represent. The power of this photograph also lies in its raw and unadorned nature. There is no attempt at aesthetic refinement - no calculated lighting, no geometric harmony, no artistic freezing of an irreproducible moment. Yet Abu Safiya's image is strikingly compelling. It commands attention through the sheer power of its content and the haunting contrast between the omnipresence of destruction and the white coat that becomes its focal point.
The photographer's attempt to zoom in, presumably to document the identity of the perpetrators and symbolically shield the doctor, compromises the formal composition of the image. Yet this imperfection enhances the photograph's realism and emotional intensity. The bare essentials - the white coat, the rubble, the tanks - are enough to convey the tragic meaning of the story: the story of a doctor who fought until the last moment to save the wounded brought to his hospital against all odds, before walking, unarmed and exposed, toward the steel monsters that obliterated his world.
The iconic power of the photograph lies as well in its ability to provoke questions: What happened before and after that moment? What happened to the doctor when he reached the tanks? Where did they take this witness to their crimes? And what about the other medical staff at Kamal Adwan Hospital, or the hundreds of wounded who were forced to flee that shattered sanctuary? Did they take the same route past the tanks? Were they arrested and deprived of the minimal resources they had left?
The image is rooted in a larger story. The Kamal Adwan Hospital was named after a Palestinian leader assassinated by the Mossad in Beirut in 1973, along with Kamal Nasser and Abu Yusuf al-Najjar, during an operation led by Ehud Barak. The hospital symbolized healing, preservation of life and remembrance in the Gaza Strip. Hussam Abu Safiya, born in 1973 in the Jabalia refugee camp after his family was expelled from Ashkelon during the Nakba, embodies the Palestinian journey. This doctor has lived, studied and defied unimaginable conditions, dedicating his life to serving Gaza despite the siege, wars and bombings. He lost his son, killed by Israeli forces in October 2024, just two months before this photograph was taken.
The image unfolds a narrative that resonates with speculation and deep anguish. How many steps did the doctor take before reaching the tanks? What thoughts crossed his mind, and what thoughts crossed the minds of the Israeli soldiers waiting for him in their armored vehicles? And beyond the immediate, how can medical professionals around the world ignore the horror of a colleague walking unarmed toward the very instruments of destruction that burned and shelled his hospital?
This photograph is a stark illustration of Gaza's ongoing reality and a mirror of our own world. It depicts devastation, silence, fear, and a poignant confrontation: a lone doctor, a healer dedicated to saving lives, standing before the war machines that have dismantled the sanctuaries of survival.
Ultimately, the image is a testament
to the Israeli genocide against Gaza, but it also reflects our collective
helplessness, outrage, and grief in the face of unchecked cruelty - and, above
all, the indifference of an inert world.
Ziad Majed
This article was first published in French on Mediapart
