Fear of the dark is one of the few things many of us never fully grow out of. At five, it was the monster lurking just beyond the edge of the bed. And even if that monster happened to be Mike Wazowski — technically one of the good guys — five-year-old me wasn't interested in technicalities. We grew up, but the fear never quite disappeared. It simply changed shape.

And yet darkness has always been there. Before electricity, before cities, before all of it. It was there first. And perhaps that is exactly why it reveals so much.

Today, five photographers from the region offer five completely different answers to the same darkness: a sky full of stars that belongs to no one and everyone at once; prayers whispered in the small hours of the night; people who can only truly live after sunset; and finally, a darkness that is neither romantic nor chosen — the kind that arrives with a bombing, where the only light in the sky is one you hope never to see.

Five local photographers. One night. Five very different stories.

I wanted to start with a powerful story — one that immediately shifts your perception of what photographing at night can actually mean. Because the truth is, darkness isn't always about beauty and mystery. For some people, it is quite literally a lifeline.

And that is the story brought to us by Tunisian photographer Zied Ben Romdhane, who in 2011 left commercial photography behind for documentary work. While not all of his projects revolve around the night, one of them is dedicated entirely to it.

It is called Children of the Moon, after the name often given to people living with Xeroderma Pigmentosum (XP), a rare genetic condition that makes exposure to UV light extremely dangerous. The project follows young Tunisians for whom sunlight can cause severe burns, irreversible skin damage, and malignant tumours. In the most severe cases, patients must avoid not only the sun but certain artificial light sources as well.

The result is a life that unfolds largely after dark. In these images, the night is no longer a mood, an aesthetic choice or a source of mystery. It becomes a condition of everyday life.

The project also carries a strong social message. It draws attention to the unusually high prevalence of XP in Tunisia. . Globally, the condition affects around one in 300,000 newborns, but in Tunisia the figure is estimated to be closer to one in 10,000, with some regions seeing rates as high as one in 100. Researchers believe this is partly linked to cousin marriages, a tradition that remains common in some communities, often because many people are simply unaware of the genetic risks involved.

Not every night photographer is drawn to the glow of a souk after closing time, or the quiet stir of street life once the sun has gone down. Some take the whole "shooting at night" idea somewhere else entirely — and that is exactly what Babak Amin Tafreshi does, as one of the most influential nightscape and astrophotographers in the world.

His relationship with the night sky started young. At 13, he peered through a neighbour's telescope from a rooftop in Tehran — and rather than simply leaving it at that, the experience sent him off to study physics and later become a science journalist. Photography came later, but when it did, it stuck.

Though born and raised in the Gulf region, he eventually went on to photograph the night sky across all seven continents, driven by what might be his most powerful idea: that the sky is one of the very few things every culture on Earth shares.

And if you fancy a touch of romance with your Tuesday, here is a detail worth knowing. One of his most celebrated photographs was taken on a date with the woman who would later become his wife. While they talked, he left his camera running a long exposure. Hours later, the result was one of his most iconic star-trail images. A reminder that the night sky isn’t only about distant galaxies and the universe above us, but also about the people beside us.

Unlike Babak Tafreshi, who looks upwards, Iman Al-Dabbagh uses the night to explore human stories on the ground.

To understand Iman's photographs, it helps to understand her own story first. Although she is often described as a Saudi photographer, her background is more layered. Born and raised in Jeddah, she comes from both Palestinian and Armenian heritage and grew up navigating multiple cultures at once. As a result, questions of belonging and self-definition became central not only to her own life, but also to her creative work.

That is why her photography goes beyond simple documentation. Instead, she uses it to explore the more complicated aspects of identity and self-expression, touching on subjects such as social taboos, gender expectations, cultural identity, shame, and social pressure.

These themes require trust, intimacy, and time — three things that aren't always easy to come by. Yet few settings create that sense of closeness better than the evening hours.

In many conservative societies especially, life often unfolds differently after dark. Conversations become more honest, people more relaxed, and parts of everyday life that remain hidden during the day begin to surface.

For Abdulrahman Al-Sahli, the night isn’t simply a time of day. It is when Mecca comes alive in ways most people never see — and for more than twenty years, he has been there to catch it. Through Heart Mecca, his Instagram account, he has built a remarkable visual archive of one of Islam's most sacred cities, its people and the moments that unfold long after the crowds have gone.

Night holds a special significance in his work. In Islam, it is often associated with reflection, devotion, and closeness to God. This becomes especially visible during Ramadan, when sunset marks the breaking of the fast, pilgrims pause to rest, and the later hours fill with prayers such as Witr and Qiyam al-Layl.

In interviews, Abdulrahman has described his approach to photography not as hunting for moments, but as waiting for them. And you can feel that in his images: they capture both the scale of Mecca and the quieter moments within it: thousands of people moving together, vast crowds gathering in prayer, and, at the same time, the solitude of a single worshipper.

And on a rather lovely note to finish, when asked to choose a favourite photograph, Abdulrahman picked an aerial image of the long Ramadan iftar tables stretching out below. Which, honestly, feels quite fitting.

Suhail Nassar is a Palestinian photographer and visual storyteller from Gaza. Unlike some photographers who deliberately seek out the night as their main subject, Suhail's recent focus on darkness has largely been shaped by circumstance rather than artistic intention. In his work, darkness isn't aesthetic — it is documentary.

After returning to Gaza City in January 2025, Nassar began documenting everyday life in his hometown as it unfolded around him. His photographs capture the reality of a city living through disruption and survival. As a result, many of his images are made at night, not because he is chasing dramatic lighting, but because darkness has become part of daily life itself.

His photographs show streets with little or no electricity, neighbourhoods illuminated only by scattered light sources, and night skies interrupted by flares that can resemble fireworks at first glance. The images often feel post-apocalyptic, yet they remain deeply human, focusing on the people continuing their lives within these conditions.

As Nassar himself writes, they are "nights of waiting, believing truth will rise like the sun." In that sense, the darkness in his photographs isn't simply the absence of light — it becomes a record of endurance and hope.