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Rating: In 1948, Robert Capa went to Haifa to capture in history the events of Israel's first war for independence. In November 1947, the United Nations planned a program for the partition of Palestine, which quickly escalated into a civil conflict between the Jewish and Arab sides. To be fair, the Israeli Jews would declare their independence swiftly at the end of British colonization, not considering the potential disastrous reaction from a conglomerate of Egyptian, Iraqi, Transjordanian, and Arab militias.
After battles, truces, and military operations, in 1949 with the victory of Israel, an armistice was reached to define the borders and the birth of a new State. The conflict forced around 710,000 Palestinian Arabs into exile, due to animosity towards the ordinary wartime administration, navigating through racism, Zionism, and nationalist controversies. And Capa, with his beloved Leica, was there to capture the spirits of the migrants arriving at Sha'ar Ha'aliyah on photographic paper.
A mother and her child. Two strong silhouettes imposed on an almost entirely clear sky, if not for a few timid hints of delicately brushed cirrus clouds. It is probably hot; one wonders if it's bearable. The child doesn't seem to mind it. The mother is burdened mostly by the weight of the suitcase that makes her path difficult. The road is dry like the ornamental weeds. Dust clings to the tips of their shoes, but it goes unnoticed. It's not the time for that. They need to walk and find temporary accommodation at the Rosh Hay'n camp.
A few rags, an item of sentimental value, maybe a couple of blankets, perhaps some money. In flight, there is little time to think about what to bring along. I wouldn't be surprised if in that suitcase there's a dish or at least a little pot to cook something. Or maybe to warm some milk for that little one who walks without understanding why. This is a photo that touches the heart. At least for those particularly sensitive. Capa captures and finds the soul.
One wonders if there will be a father who didn't make it into the frame. Hopefully. Maybe he is there beside them and just out of view. Perhaps, being stronger, he carries a bigger suitcase. And heavier. In this image, I can't sense a father. Some men blur into the background. And it cannot be him.
Walk by my side and don't stray. Mom can't hold your hand because the suitcase is heavy, and I can't carry it with one hand. Hold onto my skirt and don't let go. Good boy, mommy's boy.
The mother struggles under the burden of those glimpses, those fragments of daily life gathered in haste and enclosed in a leather cage. Hoping she hasn't forgotten anything useful. One can feel the heavy breath, heightened by the heat. And those unintentionally furrowed eyebrows, arched with extraordinary resilience. Away from home, in search of refuge, for material but imperative reasons. The little one obeys, keeps pace, and seems to be trying to understand. Why are we leaving home?
Did you grab the spinning top? And the marble? But are we coming back tonight?
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