30 Seconds From Gaza: The artistic archive resisting censorship and exposing occupation brutality through Mohammad Sabaaneh's ink

In the foreword of Diary of Genocide: 30 Seconds From Gaza, Israeli historian Ilan Pappé offers an overview of the Palestinian experience of ethnic cleansing and forced displacement, from the Nakba to the ongoing genocide.

However, it is his observation of permanence and impermanence that captures the content of Palestinian cartoonist Mohammad Sabaaneh’s collection of drawings.

Ilan notes that Palestinian refugees “were reluctant to build homes using permanent materials such as stone.” Sabaaneh, on the other hand, “uses Indian ink in his drawings because it cannot be erased by water, expressing a sense of permanence.”

Nadia Naser-Najjab further highlights the concept of permanence in the preface, where she states that Mohammad’s drawings, unlike the brief videos from Gaza posted on social media that are routinely erased or censored, speak of the Palestinians’ “right to exist.”

Mohammad himself explains in the book's introduction that his drawings aim to capture the enduring experience of Gaza’s current reality. The '30 seconds' in the title refers to the length of videos that have become tragically familiar, often shared by Palestinians as they endure Israel's genocide in Gaza.

“Can you imagine how those living through those 30 seconds feel?” Mohammad asks.

He explains that his drawings, which depict moments from these brief videos, serve as a means to “archive moments and information that are expected to be banned later.”

'I want to hold my own hand again'

Art has its own niche in terms of memory. Mohammad’s Cubist drawings in this collection occupy a unique place in memory, making them hard to forget. Each drawing is tremendously chaotic, demanding the viewer's attention and reflection, with the palpable anguish portrayed lingering long after, while the simple, plaintive captions appeal directly to humanity.

The final observation requires its own elaboration. Decades of dehumanising Palestinians to allow the colonial narrative to prevail have led to the need to plead for their humanity — an aberration in itself. Were it not for Zionist colonisation, would we even be discussing the humanity of Palestinians, or would it be taken for granted, as it is for other people around the world?

The drawings often depict parents searching for their children, children searching for their parents, and parents clinging to their children, even as Israel’s bombs tear through Gaza.

The caption of one drawing reads, “Oh, God! Please take them in your arms,” as it depicts a mother holding out her child while another bomb falls from the sky.

“I want to go with my dad!” another child cries after the martyrdom of their father.

Another drawing is captioned, “Keep looking… maybe you’ll find a kid alive under the rubble,” with the overwhelming emotion of the image raising the question: Is it hope or despair, and how many children lie alive beneath the rubble, only to be lost moments later?

“Take care of your sister,” another caption reads, accompanying a drawing of children buried under rubble, with the theme of responsibility in the face of impending death — or even after it — running throughout Mohammad’s collection.

Resilience also shines through in these drawings, with some illustrations attesting to the Palestinian people’s determination to live and remain in Gaza despite the unfolding genocide. In contrast, others reveal the brutal aftermath, such as children missing limbs.

“I want to hold my own hand again,” one caption reads, a simple sentence that forces us to recognise the horrifying reality that Palestinian children who have lost a hand, or both, will forever yearn for such a basic, unconscious gesture.

The drawings also capture the simplest of desires — parents promising to buy their daughter a doll, provide a birthday cake, or simply have enough food — while one artwork illustrates the anguish of parents watching their children die from hunger.

Deliberate targeting of Palestine's youth

Throughout the book, it becomes clear that children are a central focus in the collection, highlighting Israel’s deliberate targeting of the younger Palestinian generation.

Two particularly harrowing drawings depict a baby taken from its mother’s womb after Israel killed her; the other shows a mother pushing a cart carrying her dead son’s body. This is the reality of families in Gaza today — gaping holes of emptiness left by Israel’s relentless killing.

“I simply want to play,” one drawing captures, showing a little girl amidst the debris of her bombed family home.

Another drawing, captioned, “We were simply playing when it happened,” embodies a despair that no child should ever feel.

And yet, Israel forces Palestinian children in Gaza to define and defend their innocence against bombs that tear them apart, while the international community stands complicit.

Mohammad also dedicates a series of drawings to narrating the tragic killing of Hind Rajab, a five-year-old Palestinian girl in Gaza, who was stranded in a vehicle for several hours while the Palestinian Red Crescent Society attempted to rescue her.

Surrounded by her dead relatives in the ambushed vehicle, Rajab, too, was killed, along with the PRCS workers who tried to save her.

Permanence in Indian ink, while Israel is annihilating Palestinians, may seem like a contradiction, yet the truth is that the freedom to create is now also tinged by Israel’s genocide.

Ramona Wadi is an independent researcher, freelance journalist, book reviewer, and blogger specialising in the struggle for memory in Chile and Palestine, colonial violence, and the manipulation of international law

Follow her on X: @walzerscent