An army that fears its image!

Amin Al-Hajj

As the occupation celebrates the 77th anniversary of the declaration of its state, in a scene that raised questions, the occupation army decided to conceal the faces of 120 of its soldiers during the annual ceremony to "honor" them. They were merely shown in a manner that concealed their features, without publishing their names. This decision may seem like a small detail in a security protocol, but in reality, it reflects profound implications that expose the contradictions in the discourse of "military pride" that it constantly boasts about. What does it mean to honor a soldier without a face? In essence, honoring is a celebratory act that shows appreciation and public recognition for someone who has performed a "heroic" act. But when a soldier is prevented from appearing publicly, or his face is hidden, the equation of honor turns into a state of fear. Is it honoring or concealment? Pride or denial?

Hiding soldiers' faces implicitly means that he is either unable to protect them, unable to bear the consequences of their actions, due to their involvement in violations that could lead to legal accountability, or simply fears that their identities will be known and they will be targeted. Here, the soldier is transformed from a "symbol of courage" into a ghost in a system that fears accountability.

But concealment doesn't just reflect an escape from accountability, but also an evasion of the self, as psychoanalysts have argued. What isn't perceived internally manifests externally in the form of "fate." Thus, the outside world becomes a stage for internal conflict. When a state is embarrassed to display its combat symbols, it declares—consciously or unconsciously—a loss of confidence in its moral narrative. What's hidden isn't just the face of a soldier, but rather a mirror of lost legitimacy, one that it fears confronting because it reveals what it seeks to deny. Concealment here isn't just a means of protection; it's a collective defense mechanism to protect a fractured narrative from collapsing in the face of a simple moral question: What have we done? Consequently, concealment here is no longer an option, but an existential necessity for a system that has come to recognize itself as morally and legally exposed.

The soldier's image is not merely a visual identity; it is a political narrative. Hiding faces in the age of the image is an implicit admission that the image has become damning evidence that incriminates, not exonerates. After a series of clips documenting his crimes against civilians—from killing and starving children and women to destroying homes—he realized that the image could transform him from a claimant to legitimacy into an accused war criminal.

In an unequal battle, the image may defeat the bullet, and awareness may prevail over force. Military superiority does not guarantee victory when the executioner is defeated in the media arena, the camera becomes a court, and the image becomes a weapon that moves the streets and tightens the noose on the machine of oppression. Although its influence is still limited, it is expanding day by day.

An army that cannot display photos of its soldiers is not worthy of being proud of. How can it be presented as the "most moral army," as its leaders claim, while concealing those it claims are "role models"? How can a society be proud of its army while keeping its "heroes" anonymous, for fear of international law or a public opinion that no longer believes the old lies?

What's worse is that this concealment exposes the depth of the moral dilemma it is experiencing. It knows that what it is committing on the ground, in Gaza, the West Bank, the displaced villages, and throughout the region, cannot be publicly defended or marketed as "national pride," even if it could temporarily. Therefore, in this context, the soldier is no longer a symbol of heroism, but rather a moral burden hidden from view, so that the world does not see the true face of the occupation. Thus, the occupation does not appear as it claims, but as it is: fearing its image, ashamed of its soldiers, and hiding behind false masks. The hero is not the one whose face is hidden, but the one who reveals it to the public to tell the story of the truth.

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An army that cannot display photos of its soldiers is not worthy of being proud of. How can it be presented as the "most moral army," as its leaders claim, while concealing those it claims are "role models"? How can a society be proud of its army while keeping its "heroes" anonymous, for fear of international law?