Portraits of Resistance: Exploring Palestinian Martyr Posters

This work is lovingly dedicated to the memory of Dina Zu’rub, a Palestinian artist from Gaza, martyred on April 13, 2025, in an Israeli airstrike on Khan Younis.

Dina devoted her life and her art to honouring the faces of the fallen—those whose lives were taken in the long and painful struggle for Palestinian freedom. With every stroke of her pencil, she preserved their stories, immortalized their resistance, and gave them back to the people as icons of memory and hope. She was known for drawing the martyrs of the oppression—and in a cruel, poetic turn, she joined them. She was not just an artist of the martyrs. She became one.

May this piece, Portraits of Resistance, stand as a tribute to her legacy and to all those who, like her, wielded art as a weapon of truth and remembrance. May her soul find peace. May her name be remembered. Glory to the Martyrs. 

Think not of those who are slain in the path of God as dead. Nay, they are living, finding their sustenance in the presence of their Lord”

(Quran 3:169)

Portraits of Resistance: Exploring Palestinian Martyr Posters

Walking down a busy street in a West Bank town or weaving through the tight alleys of Gaza’s refugee camps, it’s impossible to miss them. Taped to shop windows, pasted on concrete walls, draped from balconies or mounted in frames at the entrances of homes, the faces of the departed watch over the living. These are the martyr posters – ubiquitous memorial portraits of Palestinians who lost their lives in the struggle against Israeli occupation. Faded by sun and weather, or freshly printed in bold colours, they form a patchwork gallery of heroes and loved ones that spans decades of conflict. Each poster is more than just an obituary; it is a symbol of resistance, remembrance, and national identity. This journalistic feature delves into the cultural and historical significance of Palestinian martyr posters, hearing from those who live among these images, and drawing parallels to other societies – from the veneration of Catholic saints to the martyr murals of Iran and memorials in El Salvador – to understand how a community’s grief and pride are rendered in public art.

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From Hand-Drawn Memorials to Ubiquitous Icon: A History of Martyr Posters

The tradition of martyr posters in Palestine dates back to the 1970s, amid the rise of Palestinian nationalism and armed resistance. In those early days, long before digital printers and Photoshop, bereaved communities crafted memorial posters by hand. Artists would sketch the likeness of the fallen alongside potent symbols of the Palestinian struggle. Alaa Daraghme reports that these early posters often featured the martyr’s portrait next to nationalist icons like the Palestinian flag and revolutionary slogans such as “Revolution until victory”. This practice of honouring “the people’s martyrs” visually was a grassroots response to loss – an attempt to immortalize individuals in the collective memory of the community.

By the late 1980s, as the First Intifada (uprising) erupted across the West Bank and Gaza, martyr posters became truly ubiquitous. Local printing presses (often clandestine) began producing posters on a mass scale. Images of young protesters killed in clashes, fighters slain in battle, or even civilians caught in the crossfire were rapidly reproduced and plastered in public spaces. The Israeli authorities viewed these posters as dangerous propaganda – potential tools for incitement and recruitment. Indeed, the Israeli government banned the production and display of martyr posters during this period, considering them a threat to security. Possessing or designing a martyr poster could land one in prison, and Israeli troops frequently tore down posters or raided print shops in an effort to stem their spread​. Yet the practice persisted underground. Palestinians recount how new posters would appear almost immediately after each funeral, even if it meant risking arrest to put them up.

After the signing of the Oslo Accords in 1993, some restrictions on Palestinian civil institutions eased. One outcome was the proliferation of private print shops in the Palestinian territories – and with them, a surge in martyr poster production. “As they no longer worried about Israelis tracing the source, more posters were produced than ever before,” recalled Muhammad Abu Latifa, a community leader from Qalandiya refugee camp. What had been a furtive act could now be done more openly in areas under Palestinian Authority control.

The imagery also evolved: where 1970s posters relied on generic nationalist symbols, by the 1990s and 2000s the designs became more personalized and factional. One anonymous poster designer described how the generic flag backdrop was often replaced by emblems of a specific political movement or portraits of its leaders – Yasser Arafat’s visage for Fatah-affiliated martyrs, or Quranic verses and the green colour for Hamas-affiliated martyrs​. Militants killed while fighting would be depicted with the logo and colours of their faction; for example, Hamas posters might include images of the group’s late founders, Sheikh Ahmed Yassin and Abdel Aziz al-Rantisi, on a green background, whereas Fatah posters might feature the yellow Fatah flag or Arafat’s iconic keffiyeh.

Israel’s campaign of destroying visual representations of Palestinian martyrs intends to erase the physical symbols of resistance and undermine the collective memory of the Palestinian people.

Rehab Nazzal

By the time of the Second Intifada (early 2000s), martyr posters had become entrenched as a dominant visual culture in Palestinian society. Anthropologist Lori Allen notes that during this period “martyr funerals and posters were the most predominant form of memorialization” in Palestine. Virtually every town, village, and camp was awash with these images, to the point that multiple layers of martyr posters would accumulate on the walls, each new wave pasted over the older, in a palimpsest of grief and pride. The density of posters around a martyr’s home signalled the special status of that family – a visual declaration that this household had given a sacrifice for the nation. Conversely, the sheer omnipresence of martyr images throughout streets and public squares “hailed” all Palestinian passersby as participants in a shared national narrative of resistance. Even those not affiliated with any political faction would daily confront the faces of the fallen and the message of steadfastness they embodied.

Notably, some young fighters began preparing their own martyr posters in advance as the violence intensified in the 2000s. Knowing that death was likely, a militant might pose for a photo with a gun or record a heroic statement and have a poster design ready to be printed upon news of his “martyrdom.” Alaa Daraghme’s investigation found that by the mid-2000s it was not unheard of for would-be martyrs to select their portrait and colour scheme ahead of time. One Al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigades member even showed his friend a poster design featuring himself beside an array of home-made bombs; when he was killed in 2006, his comrade simply delivered that design to the printer. This practice underscores how deeply the martyr poster had woven itself into the cycle of conflict – it was no longer merely a retrospective tribute, but part of the conscious performance of martyrdom.

In response to the enduring prominence of martyr posters, Israeli forces have continued efforts to suppress them well into the 21st century. Palestinian media-freedom groups documented raids on West Bank printing houses as recently as 2016: at least seven print shops were broken into by Israeli soldiers and four shuttered, with equipment confiscated. In late 2023, during a wave of unrest, Israeli occupation troops even targeted the memorial plaques and photos displayed at homes in Jenin refugee camp – smashing the engraved portraits of martyrs that families had placed by their doorways​. “Israel’s campaign of destroying visual representations of Palestinian martyrs intends to erase the physical symbols of resistance and undermine the collective memory of the Palestinian people,” writes artist and scholar Rehab Nazzal, who witnessed printing presses ransacked and photographs defaced during military incursions. The very fact that occupying forces devote such attention to tearing down posters and photos speaks volumes about their power: these images are perceived as threatening symbols of an unyielding identity.

Ironically, even as soldiers peel posters from walls, a new medium has emerged beyond their reach: social media. In recent years, Palestinian youth have begun commemorating martyrs on Facebook pages and Instagram feeds as much as on neighbourhood walls. “Young Palestinian fighters are increasingly more interested in being remembered online, rather than on walls and shop windows,” notes one observer. Digital martyr collages – often showing the deceased against ethereal clouds or alongside emotive slogans – circulate widely. These online posters, shared on smartphones across the West Bank and Gaza, are even harder to censor or confiscate. Whether printed on paper or rendered in pixels, the tradition of honouring martyrs through images is evolving but far from fading. The stage is now set to explore why these posters hold such profound meaning in Palestinian society.

“Immortalizing the Martyrs”: Meaning, Memory and Emotional Significance

For Palestinians, martyr posters are not morbid decorations – they are repositories of memory and mirrors of collective identity. Each poster tells a story of a life cut short and serves as a public reminder of why that life was lost. In a culture where nearly every family has experienced bereavement through conflict, these visual tributes help transform personal grief into communal pride and resolve. As Dr. Walid Al-Shurafa of Birzeit University explains, during the early years of the Palestinian revolution, people saw the posters as a way of “immortalising the individual and their actions.” By venerating martyrs in this way, Palestinians assert that the dead did not die in vain – they live on as examples to inspire others.

martyr funerals and posters were the most predominant form of memorialization

Lori Allen

The emotional significance of the posters begins at home. It is common for the family of a fallen Palestinian to create a sort of shrine in their house dedicated to their shaheed (martyr). The living room (or “salon” in Arabic) often becomes the display room for the departed’s photographs, poster, and belongings. In her photographic project Death, Palestinian artist Ahlam Shibli documented how the martyr’s mother carefully arranges the salon as “a holy shrine” where the martyr’s image is surrounded by decor and symbols of honour​. Framed portraits might sit on a table next to candles or flowers; posters may hang alongside Palestinian flags or Quranic calligraphy. In some cases, families even incorporate symbols of ferocity and courage into the display – Shibli observed that images of lions, tigers, or eagles are sometimes edited into the posters as emblems of the martyr’s bravery against the occupier. Within the private space of the home, these memorials fulfil a dual role: they are an outlet for personal mourning and simultaneously a badge of honour. The salon shrine blurs the line between the private and the public, because it is in the salon that relatives, neighbours, and well-wishers gather – to offer condolences, to congratulate (yes, congratulate) the family on their sacrifice, or to mark anniversaries of the martyr’s death. Thus the home shrine becomes “an arena of collision: of the public representation of martyrdom; of the private suffering for the loss… and of the martyr’s personal identity within his family” . Grief is given a proud face, and pride is tinged with grief.

Indeed, outsiders are often struck by the mix of sorrow and solace with which Palestinian families speak of their martyrs. A foreign journalist visiting a refugee camp in 2006 described being led into a home where the matriarch had lost multiple sons. On one wall was a cluster of images – young men in keffiyehs, posing with rifles or smiling shyly – each bearing the dates of their death. “A shrine to a mother’s lost family,” the visitor noted soberly​. But to his astonishment, the mother herself was cheerful and proud as she served coffee and recounted each son’s fate. She even invited him to take photographs of the display. “I felt deeply uncomfortable… as she proudly paraded the ripped insides of her life,” the reporter wrote, reflecting on the contrast between his own sense of tragedy and the mother’s stoic pride. For the bereaved Palestinian mother, sharing her martyr’s image and story is a way to cope and to derive meaning from unbearable loss. The poster on her wall is proof that her child’s death has entered history, that it contributes to the larger narrative of resistance. In celebrating her child’s martyrdom, “the mother of the martyr… signals her engagement in national politics,” as scholar Laleh Khalili observes. Rather than retreating into private grief, many mothers publicly embrace the role of “mother of a hero,” thereby asserting that they, too, are part of the struggle.

On the streets, martyr posters serve as a kind of grassroots pantheon of national heroes, but also as intimate reminders. For passersby, especially in the martyrs’ own communities, seeing a familiar face on a poster can trigger a flood of memories or resolve. “For Palestinians, photographing and remembering martyrs is a means of resistance to … settler colonialism,” writes Rehab Nazzal, emphasizing that remembrance itself is an act of defiance. Every poster affixed to a wall defies an enemy that would prefer the martyr be forgotten. In towns like Jenin, Nablus, or Khan Younis, these images turn mundane corners into open-air memorials. They tell the youth, “someone from your street gave their life – honour them.” They remind the elderly, “the struggle continues, carried by each generation.” And for the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have spent time in Israeli prisons or survived clashes, the posters are affirmation that their sacrifices are recognized. Even those who did not personally know the individual martyr may draw inspiration from their poster. It’s common to see children in refugee camps stop and gaze at the colourful placards of “martyr uncles” and “martyr brothers,” absorbing the idea that to serve the Palestinian cause is worthy of the highest honour.

The iconography on the posters reinforces these messages. Almost invariably, the martyr’s photograph is printed crisp and large at the centre – a young face staring out with a half-smile or a determined gaze. Often it is a casual snapshot from happier times: a teenager holding a soccer ball, a mother cradling her baby (in the case of female martyrs), a father posing in his work uniform. In other cases – particularly for fighters – it’s a staged image brandishing a firearm or wearing military gear, to emphasize valour. Above or beside the portrait, text usually proclaims the name, date of martyrdom, and a short epithet like “Heroic Martyr of the Homeland”. Many posters include a verse from the Quran or an Islamic phrase (e.g. “In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate” at the top), invoking the religious sanctity of martyrdom. National and religious symbols crowd the background: doves for peace, fists or rifles for resistance, the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem to symbolize the Palestinian nation, or the silhouette of Al-Aqsa Mosque. In newer posters, especially those issued by militant factions, images of political leaders or other martyrs might form a collage – situating the individual within a lineage of struggle​. A poster for a Hamas-affiliated martyr, for instance, might faintly superimpose the visages of Hamas founders like Sheikh Yassin in the sky above the martyr, as if welcoming him to the ranks of the honoured dead.

The density of posters around a martyr’s home signalled the special status of that family – a visual declaration that this household had given a sacrifice for the nation.

Crucially, these posters are not static artifacts – they interact with the living community. On anniversaries of a martyr’s death, families often plaster fresh copies of the poster around the neighbourhood, sometimes updating the design to mark the passing of a year or more. Community members may gather for a memorial where the poster serves as a focal point – hung in the local mosque or community centre. Schoolchildren have been known to march carrying posters of alumni who were killed, keeping their memory alive in the next generation. Even in everyday life, the posters provoke action: A young Palestinian man at a Ramallah protest in October 2023 was heard leading a chant toward a group of women: “Oh mother of the martyr, how lucky you are. I wish my mother were in your place!” he cried. The startling slogan, shouted in public, encapsulates how deeply the ideal of martyrdom is ingrained – to the point that youth envy the honour of the martyr’s family. (It also reflects the cultural expectation that a martyr’s mother responds to tragedy with pride and steadfastness, thus becoming a kind of model for others.)

Not everyone unreservedly supports the glorification that some posters project. A degree of soul-searching and debate exists within Palestinian society about the meaning of martyrdom. Some critics worry that romanticizing fallen fighters – especially through images flaunting weapons – could encourage more young people to seek death over life​. Dr. Walid Al-Shurafa cautions that what began as simple memorials can sometimes slide into “romanticising the conflict,” especially when posters produced by political factions prominently feature guns and militant imagery​. There are instances where factions compete through posters – a struggling group might splurge on large, glossy posters to cover walls and assert its relevance, effectively turning martyr commemoration into a propaganda tool. Many Palestinians are keenly aware of these nuances. As one young man in Nablus put it (captured in a local documentary), “We honour our martyrs from our hearts, but we also don’t want to see more 18-year-olds on these posters.” The balancing act between honouring sacrifice and perpetuating a cycle of violence is a subtle tension that underlies the culture of martyr posters. Yet, even those Palestinians who question aspects of the martyr cult do not advocate taking the posters down; they remain symbols of history and identity. A wall denuded of its posters would, to many, signal a worse fate: forgetting the struggle altogether.

In sum, to walk amidst the martyr posters of Palestine is to stroll through an interactive memorial and a visual history of a national struggle. These posters channel grief into pride, individual loss into collective memory. They allow a society under immense duress to proclaim: “We remember our fallen, we carry their cause, and we will not let their faces fade from our walls or our hearts.” As we shall see, this phenomenon is not entirely unique to Palestine – parallels can be found in other cultures of resistance and faith. But the specific blend of nationalism, religion, and personal testimony in Palestinian martyr posters gives them a distinctive, poignant power.

Martyrs and Saints: Spiritual Symbolism and Sacred Narratives

The reverence accorded to Palestinian martyrs often carries a spiritual overtone, drawing on both Islamic tradition and, interestingly, echoing practices more familiar in Christian contexts of sainthood. In predominantly Muslim Palestine, the concept of “shahid” (martyr) is suffused with religious meaning: a shahid is believed to be favoured by God, granted immediate entry to paradise, and rewarded for their sacrifice. According to hadith (sayings of Prophet Muhammad), “the intercession of a martyr will be accepted for seventy members of his family” on Judgment Day – meaning the martyr can plead on behalf of loved ones and help secure their salvation. This powerful belief offers immense solace to families: their loss is not only the nation’s gain but could be their ticket to heaven. Dying for the cause is framed as a form of holiness. As one Gaza mother, interviewed on local TV after her sons were killed, declared through tears and smiles: “They are not dead, they are with God. I ask Allah to accept them as martyrs.” Such expressions reveal how martyrdom is not seen as an end, but a transformation – much as Christian martyrs were seen to be “born to eternal life” through their death.

In the iconography of martyr posters, one can observe this quasi-religious framing. Frequently the fallen are depicted almost in saint-like fashion: their images are sometimes superimposed on heavenly clouds or accompanied by radiant light effects, especially in digitally created posters on social media​. An oft-used caption on Facebook martyr tributes proclaims: “The martyrs do not die; their blood adorns the revolution.” The notion of blood sacrifice purifying the community connects to a deep religious motif found in many faiths. In Shi’a Islam (though Palestinians are mostly Sunni, the concept resonates), the martyrdom of Imam Hussein at Karbala is a foundational story of redemptive sacrifice. Sunnis likewise honour those who die fi sabili’Llah (in the path of God). Thus, a Palestinian youth shot by soldiers in Gaza is not just a victim; he is folded into a sacred narrative stretching back to the earliest Muslim martyrs and even Quranic figures. It’s common to see Quran verses on posters – for instance the verse “Think not of those who are slain in the path of God as dead. Nay, they are living, finding their sustenance in the presence of their Lord” (Quran 3:169) – asserting that the martyrs are alive in a spiritual sense.

Indeed, ​In December 2015, Al-Quds University in Abu Dis took this logic to a literal outcome when it unveiled a Christmas tree adorned with photographs of Palestinian “martyrs”—individuals who had lost their lives in confrontations with Israeli forces. This act was part of a broader event aimed at promoting Palestinian unity and was attended by university officials and religious leaders from both Muslim and Christian communities.

The parallels with Catholic saints and martyrs are striking. In Catholic (and Orthodox) Christianity, martyrs are those who die for their faith, often venerated with feast days, icons, and shrines. Communities treasure relics of saints (bones, personal items) and create holy cards or portraits of them to inspire the faithful. In Palestinian culture, the fallen are similarly venerated with posters and preserved belongings. One might even say the posters function as a kind of icon: gazing upon the face of a martyr can evoke both tears and a prayer. Families sometimes carry small photos of their martyred loved ones in lockets or wallet-sized laminates – analogous to how Catholic believers might carry a picture of a patron saint. During funeral processions, poster-sized portraits of the martyr are held aloft, much like an icon of a saint might lead a religious procession. And just as devotees in a church might light a candle before a saint’s image seeking intercession, Palestinian families will implore God to “accept our son as a martyr in paradise” and find comfort believing that their martyr now has a special status to plead on their behalf.

There is also an implicit saint-like idealization of martyr personalities. In popular memory, martyrs are often remembered as exceptionally virtuous or brave. Friends will recall how “Ahmed was always helping others, fearless in the face of danger” – even if Ahmed was a normal youth with flaws, death casts him in a heroic, almost purer light. This mirrors the hagiographic (saint-biographical) impulse found in many cultures: the mundane details fall away, and the martyr’s story becomes mythic. Take the example of Shireen Abu Akleh, the Palestinian-American journalist shot by an Israeli sniper in 2022. Though not a combatant, Abu Akleh was immediately hailed as a “martyr of truth” and her image – in press vest and soft smile – was painted on murals and held on placards in protests. In Ramallah’s main square, her portrait appeared alongside the Virgin Mary in one artist’s tribute mural, blending Christian iconography with Palestinian martyrdom. This reflects that Abu Akleh, a Christian herself, was being treated in death much like a modern saint: her “martyrdom” is seen as a beacon that could inspire liberation and even elevate the role of women in the struggle. Palestinian Christians in particular sometimes explicitly draw saintly parallels – for example, at Abu Akleh’s funeral, some mourners likened her to St. Stephen, the first Christian martyr, because she died courageously witnessing to injustice.

Historically, there has even been a conscious linking of Christ’s sacrifice to Palestinian martyrs in Christian rhetoric. During the First Intifada, some local church leaders in Palestine referred to those killed by Israeli forces as sharing in the passion of Christ – an overt sacralization of national struggle. In return, many Muslim Palestinians respect Christian martyrs of the cause as equal shahids. The imagery of Catholic saints and Palestinian martyrs intersected vividly in 2018 when two Palestinian women religious (nuns) from the 19th century were canonized by Pope Francis. In celebrations in Bethlehem for the new saints, some youths carried posters not only of the new saints but also of recent “martyrs of the March of Return” in Gaza – blending the iconography of formal sainthood with that of popular martyrdom in a single event.

On a more secular level, martyr posters fulfil a role akin to war memorials and statues of national heroes elsewhere – but with a religious flavour. In many countries, the graves of unknown soldiers or statues of fallen fighters are treated with reverence. In Palestine, lacking large stone monuments under occupation, the poster on the wall is the monument. People touch them, kiss the images, spray them with fragrance or rosewater on anniversaries, in gestures reminiscent of pilgrimages to saints’ shrines. The poster itself can become almost talismanic. One mother in Gaza City, whose teenage son’s martyr poster hangs by her door, told a documentarian that she kisses his poster every morning as she leaves the house, asking him to watch over their family (much as a Christian might kiss a crucifix or saint’s image for blessing).

It’s worth noting that the term “martyr” (shahid) itself carries a dual religious and nationalist significance for Palestinians. Originally meaning someone who dies for the faith and thus is a witness to faith, it has broadened to include any Palestinian killed by Israeli forces or in the context of the conflict. This means even secular nationalists or Christian Palestinians are commonly called “martyrs” in societal parlance, not in the strict religious sense but in the sense of having given their life for the homeland. This inclusive use of shahid has created a shared sacred vocabulary across religious boundaries in Palestine. A Muslim family will readily refer to a Christian Palestinian killed by the occupation as a shahid (as in the case of Shireen Abu Akleh, and vice versa, a Christian Palestinian might speak of a Hamas fighter as a martyr without hesitation. The cause of liberation has become sanctified in itself.

Young Palestinian fighters are increasingly more interested in being remembered online, rather than on walls and shop windows.

Vice

Thus, martyr posters can be seen as unofficial “holy cards” of the Palestinian national religion of resistance. They are cherished images of the fallen who are believed to intercede from a higher place, whether that intercession is literal (in the eyes of the faithful) or metaphorical through inspiration. This dynamic finds echoes around the world – wherever people have died for a cause, those left behind tend to ascribe a kind of sacred status to them. To explore that universality, we turn to comparative examples from other struggles, where visual culture similarly elevates martyrs into enduring symbols.

Beyond Palestine: Visual Cultures of Martyrdom in Other Movements

The phenomenon of honouring martyrs through images is not unique to Palestine. Throughout history and across cultures, oppressed or fighting communities have developed visual languages to commemorate their dead heroes. By comparing the Palestinian martyr posters to similar practices elsewhere – such as in Iran’s post-revolutionary society and El Salvador’s civil war – we can better understand both the common threads and unique features of this “culture of martyrdom.”

Iran: Murals of Sacred Sacrifice

Following the 1979 Islamic Revolution in Iran and the brutal Iran–Iraq War (1980-1988), the new Iranian regime transformed the country’s cityscapes into expansive canvases of martyrdom. In Tehran, murals depicting men who died in the Revolution and the war are ubiquitous . These huge, state-sponsored paintings on the sides of buildings serve much the same purpose as Palestinian posters, but on a grander, more centralized scale. According to scholar Bill Rolston, “the murals represent an exercise in state propaganda, serving to remind citizens that these men died not simply for the nation but for Islam; they are martyrs.”​ Iran’s theocratic government deliberately fused nationalistic and religious narratives: a typical mural might show a young soldier who fell in battle alongside an image of Imam Hussein (the revered 7th-century martyr of Karbala) or with quotes referencing Karbala. In fact, the mantra in Iran became “Everywhere is Karbala” – implying every battlefield death is a re-enactment of Hussein’s martyrdom​. This rhetoric is strikingly similar to how Palestinian rhetoric sometimes invokes historical or religious parallels (like likening Gaza to Karbala, or martyrs to the companions of the Prophet).

On Tehran’s streets, one can see, for example, a mural of a 13-year-old boy named Mohammad Hossein Fahmideh – a child combatant who famously blew himself up under an Iraqi tank – depicted heroically with a halo-like glow, sometimes accompanied by verses. He is revered in Iran as a national martyr-hero, much as Palestinian teens who perished throwing stones at tanks are lionized in posters back home. The Iranian murals, like the Palestinian posters, often include the portrait of the Supreme Leader (Ayatollah Khomeini or Khamenei) guiding or blessing the martyr’s image​, almost analogous to how a faction leader’s image might appear on a Palestinian poster to signify political alignment​. The big difference is one of scale and authorship: in Iran, these murals were usually commissioned by government or religious foundations – a top-down memorial culture. In Palestine, martyr posters have been largely a bottom-up, popular practice (even if factions are involved, they’re often local initiatives, not state mandates since there is no fully sovereign Palestinian state).

Yet, the emotional core of the two practices is comparable. Iranian families who lost sons in the war hang framed martyr posters of their loved ones in their homes, just as Palestinian families do. Iranian highways are lined with banners showing the faces of soldiers killed in the 1980s or more recently in Syria, akin to an open-air shrine of faces​. The message in Iran’s context is also one of continued resolve: these martyrs are watching over the living, urging them to uphold the revolutionary values. Rolston notes that by constantly invoking the “myth of Karbala,” Iran’s martyr murals work to “control the masses, bolster elite power and marginalise opposition”​ – essentially using reverence for the dead to enforce political loyalty. In Palestine, while there is no single authority orchestrating martyr imagery, various groups attempt a similar harnessing of emotion; for instance, Hamas in Gaza plasters posters of its suicide bombers with the aim of boosting its militant Islamist narrative​. Mosques in Gaza have been known to display posters glorifying “martyrdom operations,” depicting the bomber in front of holy sites like Al-Aqsa Mosque and with Quranic calls to jihad​. This is a reminder that visual culture can be double-edged – genuinely commemorative, but also potentially propagandistic.

El Salvador: Martyrs of Faith and Revolution

In the small Central American nation of El Salvador, a different struggle was waged in the 1970s and 80s, between a repressive US-backed government and leftist guerrillas (the FMLN), amidst a populace steeped in Catholic tradition. Here too, martyrdom became a powerful concept – so much so that the Spanish word mártir echoed everywhere from church pulpits to rebel radio broadcasts. The visual manifestations took various forms. The Catholic Church, especially under the influence of Archbishop Óscar Romero, began openly honouring those killed by state violence as “martyrs.” When Romero himself was assassinated in 1980, posters and images of him proliferated – showing him often with a cross or a Bible, sometimes artistically rendered with a bullet wound turned into a rose, symbolizing resurrection. He was called “San Romero” by the people long before the Vatican formally canonized him; his portrait was carried in street marches and hung on church walls much like a patron saint of justice. In 2022, when Romero and other Salvadoran martyrs were beatified by the Catholic Church, a large poster banner with their faces was displayed at the ceremony in San Salvador​, underscoring how the church itself used poster-style imagery to celebrate these modern saints.

On the revolutionary side, the leftist Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front (FMLN) drew its very name from a martyr figure – Farabundo Martí, a peasant leader executed decades earlier. Martí’s image (an old black-and-white photo, usually showing him with a moustache and peasant hat) became an emblem on posters and murals with the slogan “Farabundo vive” (Farabundo lives). As one archival poster described, “Martí remains a martyr figure for El Salvador’s Left, and he is the namesake of the FMLN.”​ During the civil war, FMLN guerrilla units would commemorate fallen comrades by sketching their faces in rudimentary posters or painting their names on rocks and walls in liberated zones. Villages sympathetic to the guerrillas sometimes maintained public displays of photographs of locals who had been killed by death squads or in combat, labelling them mártires de el pueblo (martyrs of the people). The practice had a clear intent: to humanize the cost of war and to promise that these deaths would one day lead to liberation. A famous poster from the 1980s features the faces of several nuns, priests, and lay church women who were murdered in El Salvador (including four American churchwomen killed in 1980), with the caption “Presentes!” (They are present!), a term used in Latin American protests to signify that the martyrs’ spirit lives on among the living. This is very much akin to Palestinians chanting “الشهداء حاضرون” (“the martyrs are present”) at rallies.

Even after the war, El Salvador’s collective memory visualized its martyrs. The University of Central America in San Salvador, where six Jesuit priests were massacred in 1989, has a “Martyrs’ Garden” with painted portraits of each priest and their housekeeper and her daughter (also killed) – a tranquil parallel to the Palestinian posters on walls. And in recent years, as those Salvadoran figures move toward sainthood, holy cards and posters of them as official Catholic martyrs blur with the revolutionary art that earlier depicted them. The interplay of religious symbolism and resistance in El Salvador mirrors the Palestinian experience: both see martyrdom through dual lenses of faith and freedom. A key difference is that in El Salvador, the conflict ended and some martyrs were formally canonized (Romero was declared a saint by Pope Francis in 2018). In Palestine, the conflict persists, and the martyr posters remain part of a living, urgent struggle, rather than a closed chapter to be commemorated in hindsight.

These comparative examples underscore a few common themes. In Iran, El Salvador, and Palestine alike, martyr images help sustain morale and convey a moral message: that those who died are heroes, not victims, and that their cause is just. In all cases, there is a fusion of the sacred and the political – whether it’s Karbala imagery in Iran, liberation theology in El Salvador (where Christ is portrayed as a revolutionary martyr), or Quranic and nationalist motifs in Palestine. However, there are also differences in context. Iran’s martyr culture was state-orchestrated and tied to a particular revolutionary regime’s narrative. El Salvador’s was split between a church attempting to protect its flock and a guerrilla movement seeking to rally peasants. Palestine’s martyr poster culture is unique in that it is a pervasive grassroots visual culture under occupation, semi-organized by factions but also very much driven by families and local communities. It did not originate from a state or church hierarchy, but from the people themselves in response to ongoing loss.

One might also draw parallels with other places: the giant murals of Che Guevara (the fallen Cuban-Argentine revolutionary) that adorn walls around the world, the portraits of anti-apartheid activists in South Africa, or the memorial posters of the “disappeared” in Latin America held by mothers in protests. Each is a case of using images of the dead to demand justice or inspire continuity. In Northern Ireland during the Troubles, Republican neighbourhoods painted murals of hunger strikers like Bobby Sands, effectively canonizing him in the nationalist struggle much as Palestinian camps put up posters of hunger-striking prisoners today. In all these cases, the image of the martyr is a rallying point – a way to assert, “We will not forget, and we will continue the fight.”

Glory to the Martyrs: The Living Legacy of Martyr Posters

As the sun sets over a West Bank refugee camp, the faces on the concrete walls seem to glow in the golden light. A passerby might pause before a cluster of posters, lips moving in a silent prayer or pledge. These portraits of resistance have witnessed funeral marches and protests; they have been pasted, torn down, and pasted up again; they have faded and then been replaced by the next generation’s images. Palestinian martyr posters encapsulate a people’s narrative – of trauma, valour, faith, and unyielding hope.

Over the decades, the posters have evolved in form and style, but their core purpose remains unchanged. They are images of memory: ensuring that a young man killed at a checkpoint, a girl struck by a stray bullet, or a fighter who fell in battle is not swallowed by oblivion. They are images of inspiration: exhorting those who see them to be courageous, united, and steadfast, as exemplified by the smiling face on the poster who “gave all.” And they are images of identity: a visual affirmation that to be Palestinian is to inherit a legacy of martyrs, a legacy that carries both honour and anguish.

Journalist Mersiha Gadzo, reporting from the occupied territories, witnessed how even in moments of fresh crisis, the memory of martyrs animates the present. At a rally in Ramallah in 2023, as news of new casualties emerged, a youth climbed on a friend’s shoulders and cried out homage to the mothers of martyrs​. The crowd responded with chants venerating the dead and vowing to continue the struggle. Such scenes illustrate that the cult of martyrs is woven into the social fabric and language of Palestinian resistance.

And yet, as deeply rooted as this culture is, it is not stagnant. Palestinian society continues to debate and interpret martyrdom’s meaning – through art, literature, and personal reflection. Some contemporary artists, like those of the new generation, have started creating more nuanced memorials: for instance, exhibitions that pair martyr posters with personal stories and belongings, to humanize the individuals behind the heroic images​. Others use the poster format to also mourn and question, especially when children become martyrs. There is a growing discourse on cherishing the martyrs while also cherishing life – a desire expressed by many that “we hope for a day when we no longer add faces to these walls.” That longing coexists with the reality that as long as the occupation and conflict persist, new posters sadly do appear with grim regularity.

Even in digital space, the spirit of the martyr poster carries on. Online “walls” (Facebook timelines, Twitter feeds) fill with photos of the fallen accompanied by captions of martyrdom and solidarity. The aesthetics have shifted to the internet age, but the intent is the same. In fact, social media has in some ways globalized the martyr poster. Whereas once a poster might only be seen by those in the immediate town, now a well-designed graphic of a Palestinian martyr can be shared by diaspora Palestinians in Chile or activists in London, spreading the visual message worldwide. This has helped internationalize empathy for Palestinian struggles, much like earlier generations of solidarity posters did (for example, posters in Europe in the 70s depicting Palestinian fedayeen as freedom fighters).

In reflecting on the journey we’ve taken through this topic – from the narrow alleys adorned with handmade posters to the broad comparisons with Iran and El Salvador – one is struck by the profound universality and uniqueness of the Palestinian martyr posters. Universality, in that they resonate with a common human impulse to honour those who die for a cause and to derive meaning from martyrdom. Uniqueness, in that the specific context of Palestine – a protracted, deeply asymmetrical conflict, with a stateless people using culture as resistance – has made these humble paper posters into something of outsized significance. They are simultaneously political billboards, historical archives, and sacred icons.

The next time someone wanders through a Palestinian locale and sees these faces gazing from the walls, they should understand: this is not morbid celebration of death, but rather a declaration of existence. As long as the posters remain, the people are saying “we are still here, our loved ones are still with us in spirit, and our cause lives on.” The famed Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish once wrote, “The martyr’s voice is loud and stronger than the voice of the tyrant.” In the silent language of images, the martyr posters continue to speak that loud, strong voice. They speak of pain and perseverance, of injustice and the dream of justice. They are, truly, portraits of resistance – visages of the past empowering the present and guiding the path to an uncertain but hopeful future.

Sources & References

• Alaa Daraghme, “A Brief History of Palestinian ‘Martyr Posters’.” VICE
• Lori Allen, The Polyvalent Politics of Martyr Commemorations in the Palestinian Intifada, History & Memory, Vol. 18, No. 2 (2006)
• Laleh Khalili, Heroes and Martyrs of Palestine: The Politics of National Commemoration (Cambridge University Press)
• Ahlam Shibli, Death (Photographic series)
• Yazid Anani, “And My Shrine Is My Mother’s Salon: On Ahlam Shibli’s Death.” Afterall, Issue 32 (2013)
• Rehab Nazzal, “Honouring Palestinian Martyrs.” Briarpatch Magazine
• Mersiha Gadzo, “On Martyrdom.” New Politics
• “Martyrdom in Palestinian Society.” Wikipedia
• Bill Rolston, “When Everywhere Is Karbala: Murals, Martyrdom and Propaganda in Iran.” Memory Studies
• Alejandra Molina, “Martyrs of El Salvador Are Closer to Canonization.” National Catholic Reporter
• Farabundo Martí Poster Exhibit Description – Chisholm Gallery
• University of Central America (UCA) Martyrs’ Garden – Visual Archive
• “Al-Quds University Puts Up Martyr-Themed Christmas Tree.” Times of Israel
• Raf Sanchez, “For Palestinians, a Christmas Tree Is a Symbol of Both Solidarity and Resistance.” The Telegraph
• Dina Zu’rub Tribute – Palestine Highlights (Twitter/X)
• Video Tribute to Dina Zu’rub – TikTok via @hamooz.alfar02
• Mahmoud Darwish, Selected Poems – Memory for Forgetfulness and other works

Thank You for Reading!

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If you’re interested in diving deeper into topics like this, don’t forget to check out the Donc Voila Quoi Podcast, where I discuss these ideas in more detail. You can also follow me on Pinterest @doncvoilaquoi and Instagram @jessielouisevernon, though my accounts have been shut down before (like my old @doncvoilaquoi on Instagram), so keep an eye out for updates.