But Who Reports on the Reporters?
PLESTIA ALAQAD
‘What if israel kills me? Who will return the press gear then?’
’Don’t worry about the gear,’ he replied jokingly. ‘Worry about being alive.’
From the first day, israel made it clear that journalists were targets.
On October 7, 2023 the israeli occupation forces killed Ibrahim Lafi, a photographer for Ain Media, just days before his 22nd birthday.
I never met him personally, but Gaza is small, and we are all connected in one way or another. Two days before he was killed, we spoke on the phone
israel killed several other journalists on October 7, including Mohammad Jarghun and Mohammad el-Salhi. The next day, more Palestinian journalists were murdered.
On October 10, I arrived at Press House Palestine to borrow press gear to begin reporting from the ground. When I entered, the first thing I saw lying on the floor was the bloodsoaked gear of a journalist who had been killed. At that moment I realised how risky it was to be a journalist, but after staring at it for a moment, I went up the stairs to collect the gear
“They report on starvation while they themselves are hungry. They tell the stories of people who have lost loved ones while they are grieving too. They tell stories of the displaced, while living displacement themselves.”
about filming an ad together. We planned to shoot on Saturday, but when Saturday came, it was a different reality and Ibrahim was gone.
I saw the posts from his friends and family. He was deeply loved. They were devastated. I told myself I was glad I did not know him well. I could not imagine how I would have survived the loss.
from journalist Hatem Rawagh. As he handed me the gear, he told me, ‘Take care of the equipment and yourself.’
‘What if israel kills me?’ I asked. ‘Who will return the press gear then?’ ‘Don’t worry about the gear,’ he replied, jokingly. ‘Worry about surviving.’
That moment stuck with me. For more than two years, I have kept asking
“I believe that everyone who is alive in Gaza, is alive by luck.”
myself this question: Who reports on the reporters?
Palestinian journalists risk their lives to tell the world what is happening in Gaza. They report on starvation while they themselves are hungry. They tell the stories of people who have lost loved ones while they are grieving too. They tell stories of the displaced, while living displacement themselves. If it wasn’t for the Palestinian journalists, no one would know the truth about what’s happening in Gaza.
In the face of israel killing journalists every day for the past two years, Palestinian journalists have held on to their purpose and to the belief that journalism matters. They continued to report. If it wasn’t for them, media outlets would not have access to news or footage from the ground. And this is why journalists need to do a much better job of honouring Palestinians and their stories.
On October 25, 2023 israeli occupation forces targeted the family of Al Jazeera’s Gaza bureau chief, Wael Dahdouh, killing his wife, Amina, his 15-year-old son, Mahmoud, his 7-year-old daughter, Sham, and his 18-month-old grandson, Adam. Wael received the news of their deaths while he was reporting live on air.
At that moment, the stakes got higher: we were not only risking our own lives to report, but also the lives of our families.
In November 2023, israel killed Belal Jadallah, the director of Press House Palestine. Known as the father of journalism in Gaza, this man had
taught us how to stay safe while reporting. His death was the loss of our collective guide. His death made us feel that israel was determined to silence every journalist, every media worker, everyone who tried to tell the truth.
That same month, I left Gaza. My choices were brutal: stay and wait to be killed, or leave and try to survive, reporting from afar. It did not feel like I had any real options. I survived.
After I left, many of my colleagues remained, continuing to report through the unimaginable. Hatem Rawagh and Mohammed Abu Safia are still in the Gaza Strip and have been reporting relentlessly the past two years.
Mohammed sent his family to safety in Egypt. On his decision to stay behind in Gaza he told me, ‘I am a journalist. And even if journalists are being targeted, it is my job to show the world what is happening in my homeland.’
His son was born in Egypt, a child he has never held. He has three other children who are growing up away from him, listening to the sound of their father’s voice through a fragile connection often breaking before their words reach each other. When the call finally goes through, they ask the same question each time: ‘Baba, when will we see you?’ Mohammed ends the call, puts the phone down, and cries quietly in a corner, alone. He does not know how to answer them. He cannot promise what no one in Gaza can promise: that everything will be alright and that they will meet again.
“But as the attacks continued and journalists became targets, the people became afraid that being around journalists would make them a target as well.”
When I asked him about the hardest stories to cover, he did not hesitate. ‘Starvation,’ he said. ‘These are not just stories that are hard to report, they are hard to witness. Sometimes I cannot even find the strength to lift the camera.’ His voice broke as he added, ‘It is painful that the only thing I can do for my people, as israel deliberately starves them, is to point a camera at their faces.’
He told me that awareness has already been raised, the world knows what is happening. ‘We journalists have reported thousands of stories,’ he said. ‘Now it is time for the world to act.’
For Hatem, journalism and family are everything. In Gaza, journalism and family cannot safely exist together. Although Hatem and his family remain in the Strip, they are displaced in different areas. He avoids visiting them, fearing that by simply being near them might put their lives at risk. In Gaza, being a journalist is a crime punishable by death.
At the beginning of the genocide, Gazans welcomed journalists with open arms. They offered them food, shelter and protection, even when they had little to give. They thanked them for showing the world their
pain and resilience, proud that their stories were finally being told. But as the attacks continued and journalists became targets, the people became afraid that being around journalists would make them a target as well. I believe that everyone who is alive in Gaza is alive by luck.
Today, there are two kinds of people in Gaza. Some, out of dignity, insist that the world must see what is happening to them; the truth must be shown no matter the cost. Others, also out of dignity, no longer want the world to see them in this state of suffering. They want to be remembered not as victims, but as people who once lived full lives before everything was taken from them.
When I left Gaza, I returned my press gear to Hatem, but this time at Nasser Hospital, as Press House Palestine had been bombed. I am alive, but hundreds of journalists are not. They keep killing journalists and it is heartbreaking. Even if I was to cite the exact figure in this piece, by the time it is published it would be out of date.
They carried their cameras until their last breath. I live to tell their stories, and it is because of them that no one should ever stop. In Gaza, journalism is not only a profession; it is a mission.
