The courage of Journalists in Gaza reflects the courage of the Palestinians in the face of this extermination. Shame on our Western governments and shame on all the Western journalists who are supporting this genocide.
This is our second journalist reporting from Gaza who for obvious reasons wishes to remain anonymous. If you would like to support his work you can donate here, but please add “Gaza Journalist” so that we know it is for him.
Since the beginning of the Israeli war of extermination, my life as a journalist in Gaza has been turned completely upside down. Going out into the field is no longer just a professional duty – it has become a daily gamble between life and death, between delivering the truth and taking a bullet. I write today knowing that every word could be my last, but I write to hold on to life, and to keep Gaza alive in the memory of the world.
After a series of assassinations that targeted close colleagues and friends, our fear shifted from ourselves to our families and loved ones. When the phone rings in the middle of the night, a single fear takes hold: that the news is about someone I know. We spent long days covering the field together, capturing the first moments of every event – but suddenly, their faces have become images in obituary pages.
Many people ask me if I’ve thought about stopping. The truth is, I haven’t seen a single journalist I know choose to quit out of fear of being targeted. We try to take precautions, but we also know that Israel no longer recognizes any red lines. No international law, no special protection, not even respect for a press badge. On the contrary, each colleague we lose becomes a new vow we take to carry on, to tell the stories they no longer had time to tell.
But this determination does not erase the pain. What truly breaks me are the eyes of my colleagues’ children, killed by Israel, when they ask me about their fathers. How can I explain that their dad was carrying a camera, not a weapon? How do I comfort a child who has lost the only hero they ever had in this world?
Despite everything, Gaza’s younger generation seems more determined than ever to step into the field. After every massacre, I see in their eyes a genuine desire to become a voice for their homeland. Many of my relatives and those around me, when I return from work wearing my press vest, tell me, “We’ll be like you when we go to university.” We are a people who are naturally unafraid of threats. If fear had held us back, Anas Al-Sharif and Mohammad Qreiqa would not have continued their work after the assassination of our colleague Ismail Algoul and the direct threats they received.
As for international media, my feelings are mixed. There is recognition from some outlets and journalists abroad, but most of the time it feels more symbolic than practical. Foreign media is largely absent from the ground here, and the world now relies entirely on us to report what’s happening. That makes our role even more critical, but it also adds to the weight we carry. We report on the war while being part of it, facing the same dangers as civilians, with no guarantee of protection.
Sometimes I feel that our sacrifices are not fully appreciated by some colleagues outside Gaza. It’s not because they don’t care, but because they are constrained by their organizations’ policies or unable to reach us. Nevertheless, we understand that our voices are the last lifeline conveying Gaza’s heartbeat to the world.
Despite the harshness of our suffering, the solidarity among us journalists inside Gaza are real and tangible. We are more than colleagues; we are one family. When one of us loses their home or office, we share equipment and workspace. If someone’s camera breaks, another lends theirs without hesitation. Even in the toughest moments, we try to lift each other’s spirits because we know that a free voice needs a strong heart before it needs a microphone or a lens.
Sometimes I wake up at night to the sounds of bombing and wonder, “Will I be next?” Then I recall another moment spent with a colleague I lost, and remember why I keep going. We are not just documenting the war; we are carving a testimony for history from those living through it. Every photo, every word, could be the only evidence of what happened here.
I know that I may not survive this war, but the truth will endure. I want everyone who reads my work to understand that behind every report and every image is a person facing danger – not for fame or profit, but to preserve the right of an entire people to have their story told.
In the end, we are not superheroes. We are human beings who feel fear, grief, and loss. But we know that silence is another kind of death, a death more terrible than any bullet. That is why we continue, because we believe that the free word, no matter how fragile, is stronger than the sound of the cannon.
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