The Spectacle of Our Own Helplessness

by

Sepideh Farsi’s film, Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk, powerfully captures a sense of powerlessness, both in its subject matter and how it was made. The documentary started when Farsi tried to travel to Gaza after the 2023 conflict to share the Palestinian experience. Unable to enter, she connected with photographer Fatma Hassona through video calls, hoping Fatma could document the destruction. Farsi filmed their initial conversation, and it quickly became clear that these interactions themselves would be the core of the film.

The film, Put Your Soul on Your Hand (currently showing in New York and soon to be released in more cities), is made up of video calls with Hassona, a young woman who often smiles even when she’s scared or upset. While her lively and curious personality shines through, the calls are constantly disrupted. The connection is poor – the video and audio cut out and freeze frequently, making it hard to understand what she’s saying. These technical issues actually emphasize her fragility, making it feel like she’s reaching out from a faraway, dangerous place – a world of constant bombing and fighting. She speaks casually about terrible events, like finding her aunt’s body near their destroyed home.

The film world is aware that Hassona, a 25-year-old filmmaker, was killed with her entire family – all ten of them – when Israeli forces bombed her building on April 16th. This tragic event happened shortly after her film was selected for the L’ACID section of the Cannes Film Festival, and the film includes a touching scene where she shares the good news with her friend, Fatma. While her death was shocking, the film suggests it wasn’t entirely unexpected. Fatma’s family had already suffered immense loss and repeated displacement, and their neighborhood has been destroyed. A poignant moment in the film shows Fatma scanning her phone while her family shelters in a small room. Like many Palestinians, Hassona and her family were vulnerable simply because of who they were, and their existence put them in constant danger.

Knowing Fatem has died deeply affects how we watch the film, yet the film’s core message remains consistent: life in Gaza is incredibly fragile, and we feel powerless to help. The director, an Iranian exile and photographer, connects with Fatem, who is the same age as her daughter. They discuss the hijab and what it represents for women in Iran – a symbol of oppression. Their conversations are open and honest, but the director grows increasingly worried about Fatem’s safety. As Fatem struggles to find food and weakens, the director’s maternal instincts take over, but she can only watch helplessly. Fatem is physically present, yet feels distant. In a striking moment, the director briefly steps away to let her cat inside, taking her camera with her. This shift in perspective is jarring: Fatem, still on the phone and smiling, becomes a small figure in the background, a tiny glimpse into immense suffering. The digital world, once seen as a tool for connection and change, now often feels like a reflection of our own inability to make a difference – we can witness everything, but change nothing.

The film’s title describes the worry Fatem experiences whenever she goes outside – whether she’s taking photos, helping at food banks, or just moving between safe places. But it also highlights her kind and open nature, the willingness to connect with the world that makes her both an artist and a person. Throughout the movie, we see Fatem’s photographs and hear voice recordings of her speaking – and it’s striking how young she sounds. She’s simply a girl who has only ever known life in Gaza.

I’ve been completely drawn into Farsi’s world, watching her guide this filmmaker through the ruins. But she also feels like she’s guiding me to understand what life is like for Fatem, still in Gaza. The director, traveling the world for film festivals, constantly shares glimpses of her surroundings – France, Canada, Morocco – through the phone screen, letting Fatem see a life so different from her own. We only ever see Fatem as this small image on a phone, but that limited view actually allows me to really think about what she must be experiencing. It makes me wonder what it was like for young Fatma, sitting amidst all the destruction, looking at these broken, flickering images of a world she could only dream of, a world that continued on without her. Did it give her any hope? Did it make her angry? Did it offer a brief escape, or just deepen her fear? Maybe all of those things at once? We’ll never know what it truly felt like for her, and that’s incredibly powerful. All we’re left with is the weight of her experience and our own feeling of helplessness.

Read More

2025-11-07 22:54