In early 2024, filmmaker Sepideh Farsi felt compelled to document life in Gaza. Ultimately, she couldn’t gain access to the Strip, but she connected with a photographer who lived all 25 years of her life there: Fatma Hassona.
The documentary Put Your Soul On Your Hand and Walk is almost entirely composed of their monthslong correspondence. Farsi weaves Hassona’s portraits of an increasingly battered Gaza between a steady exchange of audio messages, spotty video calls, and text messages.
The last time we see Hassona, Farsi shares that their film has been accepted by the Cannes Film Festival. The two of them, giddy over the good news, make plans for Hassona to leave Gaza to attend. Days later, Hassona and many of her family members were killed by an Israeli airstrike.
This is not a spoiler for the film; it’s the haunting backdrop. For the audience, Hassona’s unbridled optimism constantly contends with her imminent death.
Farsi also knows what it’s like to live under the boot of an oppressive regime. As a teen, the Islamic Republic of Iran imprisoned her for her activism. “Our lives were connected by walls and wars,” Farsi says in a voiceover at the beginning of the film. But, as portrayed in the documentary, the two are also very different: their ages, their access to food and water, their life philosophies.
In a poignant exchange about Israel’s ongoing violent occupation, Hassona says with confidence, “I believe if the war ends in Gaza, it will end everywhere.”
“I don’t know if I believe that,” Farsi answers.
“Try,” Hassona replies.
With the reality of Hassona’s death hovering in the background, her reply almost comes across as a dying wish: Look squarely at the violence, and try to be hopeful.
Last month, I spoke with Farsi over Zoom about Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk and her relationship with Hassona.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Jenna Barnett, Sojourners: When I was scrolling through the long list of film names at the Toronto International Film Festival, your documentary was the one that stuck out above all others. Can you talk about what that quote from the film means to you and your decision to make Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk the title of the film?
Sepideh Farsi: I had other title ideas as the film was coming along, but at some point, when I was reviewing the material for editing purposes, I came across the audio message again that Fatma had sent to me. The phrase is so simple and strong at the same time. For context, I had asked her what it was like to do photography in Gaza, and this was her answer: “It’s like putting your soul on your hand and walking.” There is an image, there is the action, there is the meaning, and the metaphor. All of it.
With what happened afterwards [Fatma’s death], the phrase only becomes stronger. She paid for her photography with her life.
She paid for her photography with her life.
How would you describe her photography style? Did you notice any shifts in her photography as time went on?
I think the shift had already taken place [when we met]. She went from a narrative, portrait of life in Gaza—wanting to underline the beauties of life there before October 7th, to something which turned out to be depicting destruction, war, occupation, and what she qualified as a genocide. From October 7th, there was a period of about two months where there were snipers all over, as she says in the film. And they could not get out of their houses because it was too dangerous. And after two months, when the snipers left and the Israeli army withdrew a little bit from North Gaza, that was when she started this new phase of photography. That was around December 2023, and a huge amount of photography was done within a year: December 2023 to December 2024.
I realized that she is non-voyeuristic in her photography. She never goes too close to people. People are always dignified in her photos. You never see misery, even if they are in front of ruins. You never see miserable people, even if they are grieving and mourning. She also almost never, except for a few photos that are in the film, photographed wounded bodies and blood, and corpses. She also always kept it at eye level. She didn’t do angles—top angles or low angles that deformed. I think she had a way of framing that took a respectful posture and relation to what she was photographing. And you feel that when you look at her photos. She was fascinated by facades, destruction, and people, and especially by children.
Seeing the photos, and the way people were looking at the lens—sometimes smiling, and as you said, always looking dignified—it makes sense, knowing who they’re looking at behind the camera.
Something I liked about the editing, even though at times it was frustrating, was how the viewer experienced the bad internet connection and the dropped calls. I think Fatma once said, after your face froze, something like, “Now you’re suffering with me.”
[Laughs] This is the second conversation we had, and already she was making fun of me and being humorous. I felt this had to be in the film because I was trying to share a first-hand testimony from within Gaza with the rest of the world. And my frustration as a filmmaker, as a person who was holding her breath waiting for the connection to come back, or calling to see if there was any connection at all, that had to be shared to convey this feeling of fragileness and frustration. I know this as an Iranian and as someone who has worked with migrants—you lose track of them. It’s somebody who you care for, and then all of a sudden you lose them. This is something that I’ve lived with a lot through the years, and here, this was the extreme.
It was effective. You two have had many parallels in your lives. But at the time of your correspondence, you were traveling and you had all these creature comforts. Were you ever tempted to withhold some of those comforts from her and from the viewer, or did that feel important to share with her and to show that contrast with the viewer?
I thought it was fair to be transparent. As much as I felt bad about being able to go around the world for my job and for the festivals because she was stuck, I would’ve felt worse if I had hidden it. The pact—the deal we had—was to be transparent. I also asked her, and she said I want to know where you are, and I want you to send photos of where you’re traveling.
What I would show her would be a tiny window into the world—to a normality that she did not have. Had I been in a black box or studio, then it would have been tasteless for her. And then I could not have told her the stories of what I was doing. So this was a decision I made early in the process, and I kept to it.
Even leaving the theater after the film felt weird. Just walking around Toronto after seeing her perspective on life in Gaza.
Other powerful moments of the film were when you and Fatma lovingly disagreed. Once, Fatma said, “Everything happens for a reason.” And you said that you don’t know if that’s true. And then another time she said, “I believe if the war ends in Gaza, it will end everywhere.” And you said, “I don’t know if I believe that,” and she asked you to “try.” That was a powerful exchange. Given that y’all shared different perspectives, I wonder in what ways you rubbed off on each other or changed each other’s perspectives.
Faith and life philosophy are a huge part of everyone’s life, whether or not you’re a believer. And we were at the two ends of the spectrum, in a way. I come from a believers’ background. I was raised in a Muslim family, an open family, and at a young age, I grew out of it. [With Fatma] was the closest I ever came to loving somebody’s belief. She was so soft about it. And I guess because she was so open to me saying that I don’t believe what you’re talking about [chuckles]—the way she reacted made it even more appealing to exchange about it.
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As an Iranian, we’ve had a lot of grievances and have paid tribute to the Iranian regime and the dictatorship that leverages their religious beliefs upon the population who don’t believe it. And you can never say you disagree because you might [end up] in jail. So, having a peaceful conversation like this? I hadn’t had it in a long time. And it brought me to peace with believers, who I respect, of course, but I would never get into a conversation about this topic, because I usually run away from it. But with Fatma, I was curious, and I liked it. I was driven to ask her more and to listen. I was interested to genuinely understand how she could believe that God put all of those obstacles in front of her for a reason. It was delicious to converse about this because it was full of respect and love, both ways.
Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk is now showing in select theaters.
Jenna Barnett is the culture editor at Sojourners and the producer of the award-winning podcast Lead Us Not.
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