The Unseen Scars of War: A Portrait of Resilience and the Power of Storytelling
There’s a photograph that haunts me—not because of its brutality, but because of its quiet resilience. It’s of Manal, a 12-year-old girl with severe burns, sitting in a hospital room in Amman, Jordan. Her face is partially covered by a protective mask, but her eyes—bright and defiant—tell a story that words alone could never capture. This image, taken by photographer Alessio Mamo, won the World Press Photo award in 2018, but to me, it’s more than an award-winning shot. It’s a testament to the unseen scars of war and the indomitable spirit of those who survive it.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how Mamo transforms a moment of suffering into a narrative of hope. Manal isn’t just a casualty of war; she’s a child who draws, laughs, and makes friends in the midst of chaos. Her balloon, tucked under her arm, feels like a small rebellion against the gravity of her circumstances. Personally, I think this is where the true power of photography lies—not in capturing pain, but in revealing the humanity that persists despite it.
From my perspective, Mamo’s journey from aesthetic photography to storytelling about social injustice is a pivotal shift that many artists undergo. His early work focused on the visual, but it was the 2013 Lampedusa shipwreck that awakened his sense of purpose. Over 250 migrants lost their lives, and in that tragedy, he found his calling. This transition isn’t just about changing subjects; it’s about recognizing the camera as a tool for empathy. What many people don’t realize is that this kind of evolution often requires witnessing something so profound that it reshapes your entire worldview.
One thing that immediately stands out is Mamo’s collaboration with journalist Marta Bellingreri on The Hospital of All the Wars. This project, set in the Médecins Sans Frontières Al-Mowasah hospital, is a microcosm of the Middle East’s conflicts. Patients from Iraq, Gaza, Yemen, Syria, and Lebanon converge here, each carrying their own story of survival. But what’s striking is how Mamo and Bellingreri approached their work. They didn’t just document; they immersed themselves, spending months building trust with patients, families, and medical staff. This raises a deeper question: How much of storytelling is about listening, and how much is about seeing?
In my opinion, the portrait of Manal is a masterclass in balancing vulnerability and dignity. Her burns are visible, but so is her strength. The drawings on the walls, the balloon, the spontaneous nature of the shot—these details humanize her in a way that statistics and headlines never could. What this really suggests is that the most powerful stories aren’t the ones that shock us; they’re the ones that invite us to connect.
A detail that I find especially interesting is Mamo’s ongoing relationship with Manal and her family. Years after the photograph was taken, he visited her in Kirkuk, where she now lives with her uncle. She’s 19 now, and her story continues to evolve. This long-term commitment to his subjects is rare in photojournalism, and it speaks to a deeper ethical responsibility. If you take a step back and think about it, the stories we tell aren’t just about the moment they’re captured—they’re about the lives that continue long after the camera is put away.
What makes this work even more urgent is Mamo’s personal connection to it. As a new father, he sees the suffering of children in conflict zones through a different lens. This isn’t just a professional obligation; it’s a moral one. He’s currently working on a project in Beirut, documenting children harmed by the ongoing war. The irony, of course, is that this work is emotionally exhausting. Mamo admits to feeling anger when he sees children suffer, but he channels that anger into his photography. This raises a broader question: Can art ever truly alleviate suffering, or does it simply bear witness to it?
Personally, I think the answer lies in the impact these stories have on us. Mamo’s hope is that his work, along with that of other photojournalists, can plant seeds of awareness. It’s a modest goal, but an important one. In a world where attention spans are short and news cycles are relentless, these stories risk being forgotten. And that’s not a world any of us should want to live in.
If you take a step back and think about it, the portrait of Manal isn’t just about her. It’s about all the children who bear the brunt of wars they didn’t start. It’s about the hospitals that become sanctuaries, the doctors and nurses who become heroes, and the families who hold on to hope against all odds. What many people don’t realize is that these stories aren’t just about the past; they’re about the future we’re building—or failing to build—for the next generation.
In my opinion, Mamo’s work is a reminder that storytelling isn’t just an art; it’s an act of resistance. By giving a voice to the voiceless, he challenges us to care, to act, and to remember. And in a world that often feels numb to suffering, that’s a revolutionary act.
What this really suggests is that the power of a photograph isn’t in its ability to capture a moment, but in its ability to inspire change. Manal’s story, like so many others, is a call to action. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest corners of the world, there is light—and it’s our job to find it, share it, and let it grow.
From my perspective, the true measure of Mamo’s success isn’t in the awards he’s won, but in the conversations he’s started. His work doesn’t just document the cost of war; it humanizes it. And in doing so, it forces us to confront our own complicity and indifference. That, to me, is the mark of a true artist.
One thing that immediately stands out as I reflect on this is how rare it is to find work that balances raw emotion with profound insight. Mamo’s photography doesn’t just make you feel; it makes you think. And in a world that often prioritizes one over the other, that’s a rare and precious gift.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how Mamo’s work transcends its subject matter. It’s not just about war or suffering; it’s about resilience, connection, and the enduring power of the human spirit. Personally, I think that’s what makes his photography so timeless. It’s not just a record of the past; it’s a mirror to our present and a roadmap for our future.
In my opinion, the most important takeaway from Mamo’s work is this: Stories matter. They matter because they remind us of our shared humanity. They matter because they challenge us to see beyond our own experiences. And they matter because they give voice to those who are often silenced. If you take a step back and think about it, that’s what makes art—and artists like Mamo—so essential.
What this really suggests is that the fight against indifference is one we all must join. Whether through photography, writing, or simply listening, we each have a role to play in amplifying these stories. And as Mamo’s work so powerfully demonstrates, even the smallest seeds of awareness can grow into something transformative.
From my perspective, the portrait of Manal isn’t just a photograph; it’s a call to action. It’s a reminder that the world we want to build—one where children like Manal can grow up without fear—starts with the stories we choose to tell and the actions we choose to take. And that, to me, is the most powerful message of all.
