It was 7am on Monday, August 25, 2025, when my late colleague Maryam Abu Daqqa called me. As soon as I answered, she didn’t miss a beat: “Good morning, Ezz, how are things in your area? Do you need any photos for your report? Tell me quickly, because I’m planning to visit my father as I miss him.”
I chuckled softly and replied, “You speak so fast, Maryam. Send me any new shots you’ve taken. Your photos are always excellent and suitable for any report, no matter the topic.” She interrupted me, speaking even faster, leaving no room for a response: “You’re talented, my friend. Take care of yourself, keep covering stories, and be the voice of the community.” a
Maryam’s words caught my attention. I asked, “What’s wrong?” She replied, “Nothing… goodbye. I’ll send you some photos, and I hope you can forgive me.” The call ended, but the story did not. That conversation turned out to be a prelude to the tragic events that followed, as she became a victim of an Israeli strike targeting the emergency building at Nasser Medical Complex in Khan Younis in the southern Gaza Strip.
At 11am, I received the first call from my colleagues in Khan Younis. They informed me that Nasser Medical Complex had been hit. My heart stopped. “Where is Maryam?” I asked immediately. They told me she was injured “and may have died in the strike”.
I tried calling Maryam dozens of times with no answer. I immediately contacted her brother, Sadik, who told me, “Maryam is gone now”. The news shocked me. Tears fell uncontrollably, my tongue went numb, and I ended the call, frozen in place.
Five minutes later, still in shock, I reached out to my colleagues at Independent Arabia’s offices in Beirut and London to share the news. It was devastating for everyone. Every time I had to inform one of my editors, I would cry, and my chest would tighten unbearably.
I met Maryam Abu Daqqa in 2020 when she was working as a freelance photographer. I asked her for three photos of the rose farms in Rafah, at the southernmost tip of the Gaza Strip. I was writing a story about how the flowers had withered while Israel refused permission to export them, and the farmer fed them to his sheep. Within minutes, the photos arrived in my inbox, attached via a link.
I was impressed by Maryam’s work, so I offered her a position with me as a photographer at Independent Arabia. She quickly accepted, and we began working together as a journalistic team: I would write reports and human-interest stories, and she would provide the pictures and videos.
Our years of working together went by so quickly. Every time I requested photos for a report, Maryam delivered them with remarkable speed. She was an exemplary professional, never refusing a task, and she often told me: “Request any photo you want. Taking pictures is not my job, but my mission.”
Maryam would repeat these words countless times over the five years we worked together.
Her enthusiasm never waned, her energy remained constant and her performance consistently precise. As for her photos, they were extraordinary. Rich with meaning, they would convey what even words could not.
What I admired most about my late colleague was her work ethic. Every day, she woke up at six in the morning to begin her work as a creative photographer. She had been doing this even before the outbreak of the war. When I asked her why she woke up so early, she would reply, “Work loves energy”.
Even on days when she didn’t have any journalistic assignments, Maryam would call me at seven, waking me up and urging me to start the workday and to request photos and video clips from her. She was energetic, dedicated and highly skilled.
Maryam was remarkable in her curiosity; she sought stories in the streets, among the narrow alleys of local neighbourhoods, in hospitals, and even from casual conversations with people. She did not like to imitate others and preferred to capture her photos herself, always approaching her subjects with great humanity.
I rarely accompanied Maryam on her shoots, but when I did, I observed her skill and professionalism firsthand. Her photographs seemed to speak for themselves, telling the story and conveying the essence of the subject even without explanation or commentary.
In her professional interactions, Maryam was incredibly gentle and humane. Whenever her colleagues requested her photos, she would provide them with diligence. If anyone asked her how to reach a story’s subject, she guided them with humility. I witnessed her kindness toward children, her respect to others, and her forgiving and modest nature.
During the war, I asked Maryam to be cautious and avoid taking risks. Yet she would always respond in her unique way: “In this war, I may fall victim, but don’t worry about me. Continue our mission, don’t stop, be the voice of the community, and write your stories – you are talented.”
Honestly, I cherished her praise for my reports and stories. During the war, she told me that our fellow photographers and journalists often asked her about the material we were producing and wished to emulate her work. I felt proud hearing her say, “We have made a name for our organisation, Independent Arabia, as a source of innovative work.”
Maryam was fully aware that she might fall victim to the ongoing war in Gaza. She once told me, “One day, the camera will fall from my hands in this war.” Indeed, she was killed while covering the Israeli strikes on her city, Khan Younis.
Maryam was not just a journalist; she was a warrior with a camera. She lived the war, moving between destroyed homes, overcrowded hospitals, and displacement camps, documenting what Israel did not want to be documented. She saw herself as the world’s eye, witnessing the war in Gaza.
Her departure has left me utterly alone. Although fellow journalists stand by my side, her absence is profoundly painful. She left behind her photographs, which captured the truth, and her words of guidance that will continue to be read. Today, I feel completely unable to work without you, my dear Maryam.
Maryam departed with her camera in hand, yet she remains in our memory, a story that will be told for years. She left me broken, repeating her name, speaking of her to my children. Despite her early passing, she lives in our hearts.
Maryam’s story always reminds me that freedom comes at a high cost, that a mission requires sacrifice, and that journalism in Gaza is not just a profession – it is a voice, a memory and a history. My dear Maryam will remain in my heart as long as I live, remembered as one of the journalists who gave her life for the profession and the mission of the media.
This article first appeared on our partner site, Independent Arabia
Reviewed by Tooba Khokhar and Celine Assaf
