Immortal Names by Zahraa Al Hassani
Captured at the Al Shaheed Monument in Baghdad, this poignant photograph honors the memory of Iraqi soldiers who perished in the Iran-Iraq war. The photographer focuses on the intricate, enduring carvings of names etched into the monument’s walls, transforming cold stone into a testament of immortality. By utilizing a shallow depth of field, the image isolates specific inscriptions, drawing the viewer into a quiet, reflective space. This work is award-worthy for its profound emotional resonance and its ability to elevate a historical site into a powerful visual narrative about loss, legacy, and the persistence of memory.
Zara Otaifah
Based in Baghdad, Iraq, Zahraa Al Hassani balances a successful career as a senior graphic designer at Zain Telecommunications with a dedicated pursuit of photography. A graduate of the University of Technology in Baghdad, she leverages her extensive design background to refine her unique photographic perspective. Having transitioned from early work with Sony equipment to her current Nikon system, she is committed to continuous learning and the mastery of purist photography techniques to capture the visual stories of her environment.
Resonance Score Breakdown
Transparency Note: The resonance score (12.2/20) is calculated based on social engagement metrics collected before the award announcement.
Expert Photography Reviews · 5
Etched in the Quiet
I spent this morning tracing the spine of an old book I found in a thrift store. It was filled with notes in the margins, written in a handwriting I didn't recognize. Someone else’s thoughts, someone else’s favorite lines, left behind for me to find years later.
Read the reflection →The Weight of a Name
If a name is carved into stone, does it belong to the person who bore it, or to the silence that eventually claims it? We spend our lives building monuments—some of granite, some of memory—hoping to anchor ourselves against the relentless tide of forgetting.
Read the reflection →Reviews & Comments
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Stone doesn’t merely hold names; it swallows them. Al Hassani’s shallow focus forces us to confront the blur of the void, where the light dies against the granite. It’s a brutal, necessary erasure. I’ve stood before such monuments, and I’m struck by how the darkness here feels heavy, almost suffocating. It isn’t just a technical choice; it’s an admission that memory is a fragile, retreating thing. We are left staring into the abyss of what remains.
Stone. A name. Then, the blur of gray. Al Hassani doesn’t crowd the frame. She lets the granite breathe. I’ve stood before these walls, and it’s the silence that hits hardest. The shallow focus pulls the eye to one etching, leaving the rest to dissolve into shadow. It’s a deliberate absence. Nothing here is accidental. The empty corner is not empty. It’s a weight. I find myself holding my breath. It’s enough.
1/30sec at f/1.8, 50mm. A razor-thin plane of focus on stone. At f/1.8, the D7100 struggles to maintain edge-to-edge sharpness, yet here, it’s the right call. The shallow depth isolates the inscriptions, forcing a confrontation with the individual. I’ve seen enough monument shots to know they’re usually lazy, but this isn’t. The shutter speed is risky, but the lack of blur proves steady hands. It’s technically sound. I actually felt the weight of those names.
We walk through the Al Shaheed Monument, and we don’t see stone; we see names that refuse to fade. Zahraa Al Hassani didn’t just photograph a wall; she listened to the silence of those soldiers. By blurring the edges, she forces us to focus on the individual lives etched there. It’s haunting. I’ve spent hours staring at these carvings, and I feel the weight of every soul she’s honored. It’s a photograph that asks to be returned to.
You’ve turned cold stone into a pulse. I’ve walked past monuments like this, but I usually just see granite. You didn’t. By softening the background, you forced me to read those names one by one. It’s quiet, and it hurts. I felt a lump in my throat looking at the way the light hits those carvings. You waited for the right moment to make the dead feel present again. There’s something honest happening here.