After three days at the Rafah crossing, I met a man born in Gaza who had never returned.
He pointed to his wife and son sitting in the shade and said: “Justice does not exist. I’ve been trying to bring my son home for ten years.”
He asked me to enter in his place, to walk the line and witness what he could not.
I crossed at sunset, and began documenting the outer edges of the Strip—a narrow corridor between concrete and sea, where fishermen operate under shifting maritime restrictions, reduced over time from 20 to 3 nautical miles.
These photographs were taken there, where geography is held in place by law and gunfire.
