‘Put Your Soul in Your Hand and Walk' Review: Ethical Concerns Riddle Iranian Documentary About a Palestinian Photojournalist Killed by the IDF
On April 15, 2025, it was announced that 'Put Your Soul in Your Hand and Walk' — a series of filmed video conversations between Iranian documentarian Sepideh Farsi and 25-year-old Palestinian photojournalist, Fatma Hassona — would play in the ACID strand of the Cannes Film Festival. On April 16, as they slept in their home in Gaza City, Fatma, Walaa, Alaa, Yazan, Mohammed, and Muhannad Hassona were killed by an Israeli airstrike. Fatma's parents were wounded and father Raed died later from his injuries.
Final responsibility for the murder of a bright and gifted young woman who dreamed of visiting the world lies with the Israeli Defence Force. However, given widespread awareness of how Palestinians are targeted for raising the profile of the daily suffering induced by the occupation (see also the abduction of 'No Other Land' co-director Hamdan Ballal after its Oscar win) a question hangs over this documentary about how deeply Farsi weighed her duty of care to her collaborator. Did Fatma decide that speaking in this format was worth the deadly cost that it ultimately exacted?
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If she did, this matter is not touched in the course of the conversations that make up the soul and the substance of this documentary. Instead, the brutal news of seven deaths (and we have met three of Fatma's family members by this point) is starkly presented in a closing title card that follows a video call on April 15 subtitled, 'The Final Conversation.'
Here Sepideh breaks the news to Fatma about Cannes. Fatma is a radiant presence who has been fighting back depression over the documentary's timespan of April 2024-April 2025. It's been a year in which food is becoming harder and harder to source and the sound of bombs and Apache helicopters are a daily soundtrack. A light goes on inside Fatma as Sepideh suggests that she comes to Cannes and the dramatic irony feels tasteless and cruel. We know that she will only come to Cannes as a still image behind the dates 1999-2025.
In this grave context, it's hard not to weigh 'Put Your Soul in Your Hand and Walk' against the value of seven lives, an equation that can only be answered to the film's detriment. Complicating this assessment, however, is the fact that Fatma had already achieved global recognition for her photography. Her images locate splashes of vivid color and human faces that pop against the ruined buildings behind them.
Farsi folds these into the documentary for its most striking and artistic sequences as we see new perspectives through Fatma's eyes. More slapdash are the newsreel clips designed to situate what Fatma is going through in Al Tuffah within a broader global narrative about Israel's genocidal war on Gaza. A variety of sources from across the political spectrum are included whose reports unfold from clashing sets of values. This is not highlighted or analysed by the film, it simply muffles an intention to create a clear frame of reference.
To backtrack: Sepideh Farsi was compelled by the images coming out of Gaza to travel there. After being denied entrance through the Rafah Crossing through Cairo, she began filming refugees coming the other way. A man named Ahmed from the same neighborhood as Fatma introduced them and their personal connection proved stronger than the sketchy wifi that causes their video conversations to cut in and out.
The rapport between the women is undeniable, even if Sepideh's attempt to force parallels between her own personal history in Iran and the unfolding situation in Palestine does not fully cohere. Having left Iran at the age of 18, she will not return for fear of arrest, however over the course of their conversations she calls in from France, Morocco, and Italy as a misty-eyed Fatma confesses that she has never left Gaza and that to do so is her dream. She is especially energized when Sepideh calls from Rome as The Vatican is on her bucket list.
To her credit, Sepideh is aware enough to own the surreal gulf between what to her is a normal life and what has become Fatma's normal life. 'We're used to it but we're not used to it,' said Fatma, 'Because we can't get used to killing or bombing or this suffering.' At the outset of their conversations, Fatma beams with a wide, white smile even as she narrates the death and destruction she has witnessed. She is proud to be a Palestinian in Gaza. 'The strongest thing is that we have nothing to lose.'
Conversations touch on the molecular details of living in a destroyed place under daily bombardment. Sometimes Fatma goes to the balcony to show her pen pal the view, and her closeness to this devastation rebirths its horror anew. She has a log on WhatsApp of family deaths, each accompanied by a photo and a description of the circumstances. There are many photos of children. They found her uncle's wife's head in the street. As she said, Fatma is both used to and not used to her loved ones being picked off. When her artist friend is martyred, she still has tears to cry.
This is a slight, ambling documentary that now has a permanent shadow over it. Its leading lady deserved a stronger film and a longer life.
Under the circumstances IndieWire is not awarding a grade. Instead, here is a taste of Fatma Hassona's photography.
'Put Your Soul in Your Hand and Walk' premiered in the ACID section parallel to the 2025 Cannes Film Festival. It is currently seeking U.S. distribution.
Want to stay up to date on IndieWire's film and critical thoughts? to our newly launched newsletter, In Review by David Ehrlich, in which our Chief Film Critic and Head Reviews Editor rounds up the best new reviews and streaming picks along with some exclusive musings — all only available to subscribers.
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We huddled and went over general guidelines of why we were there and what our mission was. We tried to put ourselves in Matan's mind, what he would have done, where he might be hiding. Matan was in Sayeret Golani, he was experienced, and I really believed that he was alive and we were going to find him. One of the first things I did was to take a photo of Matan and show it to the ZAKA people who were already there and collecting bodies and body parts. 'Is there any chance you collected this person?' They answered no, that they recognized everyone that they had picked up, and he wasn't familiar. I took that as a positive sign that he must be alive. I got a message that there were some unidentified bodies at Soroka Hospital, so I left half of our makeshift unit at the site and went with the others to Soroka. There, too, I saw sights nobody should ever see, but no Matan. We returned to the Nova and continued searching. We were there for five days. We brought in dogs from Oketz that had been retired from the service, along with their handlers. We brought in drones. We were more efficient than the army – bringing both of those in before they did. Moshe ran to a field and hid behind a tree. After an hour and a half, he decided to try to return to his abandoned car. On the way, he saw the bodies of three social workers he had been with, naked and hanging from a tree. Then he got to the car and saw Matan – lifeless – in the open trunk. He cried, 'Matan, I love you,' and he started running. On Thursday afternoon, more than five days after the attack, we received a message from someone who said he had been with Matan in a car. 'Listen, my boss forbade me to say anything because I'm not an official source, but Matan was with me in the car, and I'm sorry but he's not alive.' I sent two of Matan's friends, whom I trusted, to question him and make sure he was reliable. They returned, and pne said, 'Opher, he knew Matan, and he was telling the truth. I asked him a simple question: 'Did you signs of blood?' He said, 'I don't remember.'' So, from my perspective, if there were no signs of blood, then it left the window open that Matan was still alive. So I kept searching. That night, a representative from the local council told me that the medical staff had found DNA that matched Matan's DNA. He was gone. This is what happened that day, and nobody can ever say that this isn't what happened. Opher and I are still, to this day, fitting the pieces together about what happened, as more survivors come forward to tell us what they saw. It's very difficult for some of them - they're not capable of talking about what happened and what they saw. But so many survivors have gotten in touch with us and told us similar stories – how Matan saved their lives. I was here while terrorists were still here…. For five days, looking for Matan. The earth here is sacred. 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Because of what Matan said that night in the sukkah less than a week before his death, Opher and I have chosen life. Zohar Ma'aravi's and Michal Margolin's testimonies were taken from a film on Matan Lior's life ■
