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These places were once filled with conversation, smells of cooking, laughter, comfort. Now I’m staring into a silent, rubble-strewn abyss. Eyewitness accounts that accompany documentary photographer Alan Gignoux’s black and white portraits of Palestinian refugees and the homes they were forced to leave refer repeatedly to the abundance that once came from these razed fields – olives, grains, figs, carob and grapes. Where there was life, now there is nothing. The vast losses seem etched into the faces of Gignoux’s subjects, even as they look back at his camera with defiance.

All Gignoux’s subjects have either been exiled by the Nakba – the mass displacement of Palestinians in the 1948 Arab-Israeli war – or are their descendants. They now live in refugee camps in Jordan, Lebanon, the West Bank or Gaza. Gignoux promised each of his subjects that he would to return to their homes on their behalf, and photograph them. The series gives a detailed view of what happened in different villages in 1948, the circumstances under which people left and the repercussions across generations.

Standing in Tulkarm Camp in the West Bank, Fawzi al-Tanji, an elderly man wearing a keffiyeh who once served in the British Mandate police, clutches the proof he once lived in the fishing village of Tantura, Palestine, in the district of Haifa, home to 1,500 other Palestinians. The tattered official document is his only fragile material connection to the place he called home. IDF forerunner organisation the Haganah attacked Tantura in May 1948; al-Tanji witnessed executions of men detained during the assault. According to the accompanying account, an Israeli swimming pool and recreational grounds have been built on the site where the village once stood.

So the stories go on, each revealing another piece of this fractured, seemingly unsolvable puzzle, each adding more violence, trauma and grief. Gignoux emphasizes the deep connection Palestinians have to the land. The landscapes look bereft, too, without the communities that once nurtured them.

Documentary projects like this insist we find resistance and resilience too. Here, the standout portrait is of Sana Abubkheet, who was 19 when she competed in the 800 metres at the Olympic Games in 2004, the first ever Palestinian woman to do so. Gignoux captures her on the beach in Gaza, her training ground, wearing her tracksuit. Eyes closed, arms lifted joyously towards a blackened sky, she represents the sole moment of elation in the show. Resistance in many of these stories looks more like just continuing to live.

Gignoux’s documentary project, Homeland Lost, was originally sponsored by the British Council, and was made between 2004 and 2005. In this iteration at P21 Gallery, the stories haven’t changed, but the war in Gaza adds heavy layers to the history. People who fled Palestine as children are now grandparents; their grandchildren inhabit the same reality, a loop of time that never closes.

The gallery space is challenging. Low ceilings with not much light and an awkward ramp dividing two floors makes the viewing experience a little disparate – but the focus here is not really artistic. Upstairs, a video piece brings together many more portraits of people and landscapes, accompanied by a newly commissioned sound piece by Bint Mbareh and Joseph Sergi. It puts individual stories in the context of enormous collective loss. Eight million Palestinians are estimated to have been displaced since 1948.

The Nakba of 1948 was a point of no return. Through this project, its links to today are unbearably clear. Today, 90% of Gaza’s infrastructure lies in ruins. This isn’t about the photographs, it’s about the people, and how to preserve and survive against all the odds.