Fatima dusts the occupied rooms of the village every morning and evening. I offer her a portrait. She seems happy but something is bothering her. Khadija comes to help me understand.

Fatima doesn't know how to cover herself. She wears the long black veil of married women every day, but wonders if it is fair for an “official” portrait, because her husband is dead.

I tell her that the only thing that matters to me is that she feels good. I refrain from adding that in my own country, widows had to cover themselves in black for years. She chooses to remove her large veil and pose with the smaller, lighter one, which she always wears underneath.

His pose begins with a sigh.