Sakir Khader: When lens becomes praxis

Palestinian photographer and documentary filmmaker Sakir Khader is eternalising the truth that few attempt to reach, dedicating his platform to voices entirely evaded by Western media. With his incisive black-and-white portraits, harrowing in their fleeting intimacy, Sakir’s photographs of Palestinian life offer an unvarnished, gritty proximity to his subjects like no other, fortified by the desolating stories he includes along with them. 

With a focus on resistance fighters in the West Bank, Sakir dares to grant humanity to those deemed unworthy of it; martyred, imprisoned, amputated, young and old, grieving or celebrating. His calling found him during the Second Intifada, where, steeped in grief, he reached for his own vessel of resistance—an uncompromising lens—most feared by its opposition for its power to capture truth in its rawest form. It was grave injustice that surged him into action, “After the Israelis killed my cousin and best friend during the siege of Nablus in 2002, I made it my mission to show the world what’s happening in Palestine,” Sakir explains to Dazed MENA. “My camera became my weapon.” 

Sakir spent his childhood in the Netherlands—worlds apart from his current life, chronicling daily atrocities faced by Palestinians in Jenin and Nablus. “I am a child of two worlds: the West and the Middle East,” Sakir articulates. “My work stands on its own, independent of either. I believe my intimate images offer an unfiltered representation of reality, one that isn’t romanticised. It’s raw and personal. This is no fairy tale. It’s an honest and unvarnished portrayal of who we are and how we live—a raw, intimate glimpse into our existence.”

In 2022, Sakir won the Silver Camera Award for his photo of an 11-year-old Afghan child selling his kidney to support his family. In 2023, he won the same award for his photo series ‘The Life on the West Bank before 7 October.’ This year, as his works garnered more accolades and traction, he was hired by Magnum Photos—one of the world’s most esteemed photo agencies—as their first Palestinian photographer. “Magnum represents the pinnacle of visual artistry, and it is an honour to be counted among their ranks,” Sakir shares. “At the same time, my inclusion brings a new dimension to their archive, enriching it with a perspective that diverges from the predominantly Western gaze through which most of the world has been documented.”

Sakir is keen to amplify the creative voices of those in SWANA, having carried the weight of a narrative long sidelined. “Our region is home to immense talent—truly remarkable people with extraordinary gifts,” Sakir recognises. “I’d love to see that talent acknowledged and supported by our own communities, not confined to Instagram. We deserve beautiful, expansive galleries where we can showcase our work. But of course, politics is daunting, and it doesn’t always make things possible.”

Though mainly lauded for his photography, it is Sakir’s lyrical prose accompanying his posts that enrich his work with unparalleled dimension. In one of his pieces titled ‘Dreaming of Freedom’ (2024), a young girl in Nablus stands with her arms outstretched as if awaiting the embrace of a future that may affirm her humanity. It’s a rare portrait rendered in full colour, and under it stands Sakir’s stirring words: ‘These are the rare, fleeting moments—when children find peace amid war,” he writes. “Eyes closed, they escape to a world unburdened by loss, free from the weight of endless funerals. In these brief respites, they dream of freedom. Between concrete walls and electric wires, their bodies are bound, yet their souls slip through the cracks, untethered by grief. The captors may hold the land, but never the spirit.”

Along with the liberation of Palestine, Sakir possesses a faith in the power of visual art to portray the raw realities of the oppressed—but his words are tempered by a justified pragmatism. “I could say that all wars will end and that we’ll only have to show the beauty of our lives, but I don’t believe in painting an unresisting picture of our existence,” the photographer explains, “Even if the wars stopped today and peace arrived tomorrow, that’s when the real struggle would begin; when the trauma sets in, and we realise we must continue living with our loved ones, processing the injustices we’ve endured. Moving forward is never easy. And to be realistic, peace isn’t coming anytime soon. I prefer not to cling to illusions.”

A bearer of unthinkable loss, Sakir’s dismal faith in his art as a catalyst for change is perceptible. “The genocide of Palestine is being documented from every angle, in the highest definition, yet has that stopped the killing of my people? No,” Sakir laments. “Once, showing the world harsh realities might have been a turning point. Images could once pressure politicians into action. But in Palestine, what my people endure minute by minute, the relentless stream of horrifying footage has stirred no meaningful response. It’s a river of blood with no end.”

His images insist on humanity and depth, which, for Palestinian people, have long been reduced to distorted headlines and shrugs of patronising indifference. “Instead of outrage, it seems that the more gruesome the images, the stronger the support for Israel, the more money and aid it receives,” Sakir observes. “As if the world is saying: ‘Do better, Israeli military. Bring the war crimes to another level. This isn’t enough—show us more.’”

But he has also bore witness to unthinkable resilience in the face of it all; unyielding in his mission to honour his people. “I won’t change my course,” Sakir affirms. “Now, I’m building an archive of our existence, a testament that we did not allow anyone to stand on our necks, that we resisted our oppressors. So no one can ever say we accepted this tyranny.”