As of April 2026—Behind the facade of a “ceasefire,” civilians and journalists are being killed by the Israeli military. This is the contributed article written by Mohammed H Salem, a photographer from Gaza and D4P field reporting partner. The daily life captured in these photos has been destroyed by the invasion.

Mohammed H Salem

A photographer from Gaza. He collaborates with various photo agencies, and he is a co-founder of the platform “Untold Palestine”. His work has been featured in a wide range of international and local magazines and media. He also works with Al Jazeera English as a freelance photographer.

I didn’t go to the sea in Gaza just to take photos. I went to understand.

Since childhood, the sea has been present in our lives, not only as a place, but as something much greater. It is not merely an expansive blue space we frequented in the evening; it is a feeling.

It is the only breathing room with no walls, the place where you could stand and feel—even for a moment—that the world is bigger than everything around you.

But over time, I began to understand that this vastness was somewhat of an illusion. The sea is in front of us… yes. But reaching it, as it seems, was never truly possible.

The Paradox of Beauty and Reality

In one of my photos, a mosque stands quietly at the edge of the sea. The scene appears natural, even beautiful as it portrays the open sky and water stretching infinitely.

But when I captured this image, I was not thinking only of beauty; I was thinking of that paradox. How many people stood here, looked at the same horizon, and felt the same as I do? And how many of them knew that this horizon, despite its proximity, is far away?

The Struggle of the Shore

In the early morning hours, while the light is still faint and the city is not yet fully awake, fishermen return to Gaza port after a long night at sea. The boat in the photo does not only carry the men’s exhaustion, but it carries their livelihood as well. Those boxes of fish, caught in a restricted waters(*), are also full of hope.

People gather around the port, some of them waiting, others witnessing, and yet others negotiating to buy what the sea has offered. Here, the sales transaction is about more than commerce, it is part of a ritual that is repeated daily, where the moment of return from the sea to a lively scene of life becomes a meeting with the smell of saltwater and the sounds of people calling, and the hand gestures that carry todays’ sustenance.

In this moment, the sea looks closer than in any other time, as if it is no longer a faraway horizon, but a direct partner in the mundane details of everyday life. It gives as much as it can and keeps everyone in suspense between worry and hope.

(*)restricted waters Under the 1994 Oslo Accords, Gaza’s fishing zone was agreed to be 20 nautical miles (about 37 km). However, even before the military invasion in October 2023, Israel had restricted this to a mere 6 nautical miles (about 11 km). In reality, fishermen constantly faced the risk of being fired upon by the Israeli navy, subjected to water cannons, or having their boats and nets confiscated, even when sailing just half that distance within the supposedly permitted zone.

Smallness Before the Vastness

I took a photo of three people in the middle of the sea, looking like small dots amidst a massive expanse of water.

I love this photo because it encapsulates a complex feeling: smallness in the face of vastness. In Gaza, we are so close to the sea…

yet we sometimes feel we are further from it than anywhere else.

Moments of Normalcy

I remember well how the beach was in the evening. The families, the children, the sounds of laughter, and the aromas of our delicious food. Life was not easy, but it had some mundane moments. We went to the sea not to think of politics or borders, but simply to live.

In a sunset photo, a small boat appears on the horizon as the sun slowly sinks into the sea. This was one of the moments where I felt most at peace. But even this peace was temporary. Sunset in Gaza is beautiful… and perhaps sad as well, because you know the next day will carry the same struggles.

In another photo, a man and a woman sit on the beach in front of a small table. It is a very simple scene, but to me, it holds deep meaning.

In Gaza, people do not go to the sea just for recreation. They go seeking a moment of peace, a space where they can forget, even for a little while, everything happening around them.

The Voices of the Horizon

There is a photo of people sitting before the sea, the sky filled with clouds above them. They look as if they are talking to the horizon—or perhaps listening to it.

I always felt that the sea in Gaza is not a silent place. It is full of sounds, even when we hear nothing.

One of the moments that stuck in my memory was seeing the horses on the beach. In this photo, a man rides a horse inside the water. The scene looks almost mythical in the way it blends power and tranquility. This was part of daily life, but today it feels as if it part of a different time.

In Gaza, the beach is not just for fishing or sitting… it is a space for life in all its forms.

The Bitter Truth

However, in another photo, the beach appears completely different. Scattered objects, visible weariness, and a heavy silence. This is not the image people like to see, but it is part of the truth. In Gaza, beauty and sadness live side by side.

In the final photo, a person appears before the vast sea under a clear sky.

The scene is simple, but for me, it captures everything. The human sits here… the sea is over there… and between them lies a distance that is not just geographical, but also emotional.

Collective Memory

When I look at these photos today, I get the sense that I was not just documenting the sea. I was documenting our relationship with it.

The sea in Gaza is not just a place.

It is a collective memory, a space for hopes and ambitions, and a reminder of our limitations all at the same time.

The sea is the thing we see every day, but do not fully own.

Perhaps that is why people continue to go to it. Not because they can change it… but because it is the only thing that still reminds them that there is a world beyond it.

As a photographer, I never tried to provide answers. All I tried to do was ask an honest question:

What does it mean to live beside a sea, yet be unable to experience it freely?

This article is not just about the sea. It is about the people who stand before it every day, carrying their lives, their memories, and their disappointments, looking toward the horizon.

The horizon that seems so close… yet for us, remains so far.

（Text: Mohammed H. Salem/ Edit: Kei Sato）

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