This article first appeared on our partner site, Independent Arabia
On the 26th of August, I resolved to spend the day with my family, having so often been consumed by work during the war. It is not easy to juggle being a father and a journalist in a war zone. As I joked with my daughter and nudged her to get ready to venture out amid the rubble, hoping that we might find a place where the air was not laced with the smell of gunpowder, the first call came through: Maryam Abu Daqqa had been killed in an Israeli strike on Nasser Medical Complex in Khan Younis.
I stood frozen for a few seconds, struggling to absorb the news of the death of Independent Arabia’s photographer Maryam Abu Daqqa. Without thinking, I scooped up my daughter, showered her with kisses and held her tightly, as if in farewell, before rushing from Gaza City to the south of the Strip to reach Maryam’s family home. As I left, my daughter’s gentle voice called after me: “Daddy … have you forgotten the promise you made me? When will we go out?” I stood silent in the face of a childhood that deserved living in peace, safety and joy.
No Red Lines
The Israeli war on Gaza has brought countless moments of hardship, made even harsher when you are a journalist living in a community that is hungry, exhausted and impoverished, documenting bombardment, military incursions and dangers that could end your life at any moment. Yet the most painful moment in this inferno was bidding farewell to my dear colleague, Maryam Abu Daqqa, may she rest in peace.
From the outset of the war in Gaza, it was clear that there were no red lines. It was as if a quake and a volcano would mercilessly ravage the Strip. I was certain that a ruthless conflict was coming, one that would claim countless lives. Years of reporting in Gaza had given me a keen sense of how military operations unfold.
However, I never imagined the war would drag on for so many long, exhausting months. Today, two years since the fighting began, the guns have never fallen silent. The land has been drenched in blood, stomachs have ached from hunger to the point of death, and the wounded have endured agony without any relief. Yet despite it all, the conflict – at this point seemingly one-sided – continues, taking more lives and adding to the suffering.
Seizing the Soul
Early on in the war as I was about to leave home for the hospital – the place where journalists in Gaza preferred to work in order to document casualties and speak with medical officials as well as having ready access to electricity and internet connection – my wife stopped me and begged me to give up journalism. I felt as though she were seizing my very soul, and I asked her: “How could I live without writing?”
The days of war moved heavily, painfully, unbearably, carrying with them suffering beyond description and trials I did not have the strength to endure. Yet my work as Gaza correspondent for Independent Arabia placed me at a very difficult crossroads.
As journalists, we gather information from sources, and in Gaza those sources are doctors, faction leaders, government officials, ordinary citizens, eyewitnesses and international organisations. But reaching them in wartime has been no simple task: the bombardment targeted them all, driving many into hiding from death. Gaining access to sources has proven very difficult, even with strong social networks.
Maryam’s Efforts
At Independent Arabia, I made a point of ensuring my articles and reports had perspectives from all sides, which required conducting interviews with faction leaders in Gaza. Their absence from the scene has been a constant concern – without them, how could we obtain information and produce reports rich with exclusive insights, rather than just field observations and narration?
My dear late colleague, Maryam Abu Daqqa, went the extra mile to interview political analysts and medical personnel, and she would always assist me in securing statements from faction leaders. Her loss has had a profound impact on the quality and substance of the reports I wrote after her passing.
For the past 24 months, since October 7, I have lived without electricity at both my home and my place of refuge. For a journalist, life without power is a daily struggle: each morning at seven, I would wake up to recharge my phone, laptop and camera – a time-consuming process that became essential in order to deliver the information our readers rely on.
The Role of a Father
At the same time, I live the role of a father, responsible for providing water, flour and the few food provisions that remain available in the market. I carry these supplies to my children. But I cannot deny the fact that my children, like all the children of Gaza, are starving. Their thoughts linger on the foods they dream of eating. This situation did not arise from any personal incapacity, it is a grim reality imposed upon on all of us in Gaza.
Once I would finish recharging my journalistic equipment, I would set out to coordinate with Maryam Abu Daqqa, discussing the story we would photograph and write. It was always a daunting task: how do we choose a single idea from a thousand pitches and stories, all of them vital, all of them steeped in Gaza’s suffering?
Every report we produce is accompanied by photographs we would take ourselves, imbued with grief over the state we have reached during a war that has now surpassed two years, witnessed by the world as human and urban destruction unfolds, leaving the lives of civilians and journalists alike under the constant threat of death.
Survivor and Witness
In this extraordinarily complex landscape, my colleagues and I struggle through our coverage, caught between being survivors, witnesses and narrators of events through live images and sound. I stood beside our late photographer, Maryam Abu Daqqa, and dozens of journalists as someone who never hesitated to report on a story.
Maryam used her camera to document events on the frontlines, transmitting them to the world. When on the field, we constantly think of simple but vital concerns – our survival, our families’ safety – alongside the imperative to document the mass atrocities inflicted on my people in Gaza, while contending with the severe limitations of our resources.
We operate in what the United Nations has described as “the most dangerous place in the world for journalists and their families”. For me, practising journalism in Gaza is not merely a profession; it is a daily confrontation with immense obstacles that demand steel-like resolve and a determination to convey the truth to the world, whatever the cost.
Rapid Decisions
Every assignment begins in an environment fraught with dangers and challenges, from preparing to cover an event to ensuring that all equipment is ready and functional. Personal safety remains the top priority. Despite the bombardment and destruction, we strive to report events accurately, honestly and transparently, which demands intense focus and high technical skill.
The war forces us to move between locations quickly and cautiously, navigating conditions that can damage or destroy our equipment. Despite taking every care, I lost my laptop, which forced me to write reports on my phone for a while due to the lack of available equipment.
There are always barriers or hazardous areas that cannot be crossed because of ongoing fighting, putting me in situations that require swift decisions: risk advancing or retreat. We also face challenges such as having scarce fuel for transport and limited internet access, obstacles that inevitably slow our ability to respond to unfolding events and deliver reports and images promptly.
Unforgettable Moments
Sometimes we go 24 hours without sleep to submit materials on time. Even though we go out wearing our press vests and helmets – something I insisted my colleague Maryam Abu Daqqa always do as well – Israel has targeted dozens of journalists. Each time we hear of a colleague being killed and their camera silenced, I feel immense grief and frustration.
There have been times I have considered stopping my coverage and staying with my family, but I always go back, aware that the Israeli army seeks precisely this: a media blackout. I do not give in to the weight of the harrowing scenes that remain etched in my memory.
Some moments are impossible to forget, and some images never fade. I will never forget the time I encountered a grieving Gazan mother whose children had been killed as she screamed, “My children died of hunger!”
On another occasion, I was interviewing survivors in northern Gaza, one of whom told me he had been tortured, humiliated and threatened by Israeli soldiers with the rape of his wife and daughters. I broke down in tears. A journalist is a human too.
Israel may have destroyed the Gaza Strip and rendered it nearly uninhabitable, but it has not extinguished the Gazans’ love for their land. Life under war has regressed us to a primitive state, like life before electricity and oil: cooking on firewood that we must buy, washing by hand and baking bread in clay ovens.
Endless Queues
As a journalist in Gaza, I have recorded the suffering of people without shoes on my feet and have become all too accustomed to seeing individuals barefoot or in worn-out footwear. Over the prolonged period of war, with repeated displacements, soaring prices, salary cuts and bank closures, I have observed people living in extreme poverty, relying on aid and assistance, with rich and poor alike waiting in line for help.
Money is of little use in Gaza. Many salaries cannot cover basic necessities, leaving citizens with a deep sense of frustration and humiliation. On top of this, patients in Gaza endure dire conditions due to the collapse of the healthcare system, the destruction of hospitals and the lack of available medicines for chronic and epidemic diseases.
In most cases, I join the queues like everyone else, standing for hours, enduring quarrels and scuffles as each person strives to maintain their place to obtain water. All Gazans share in these water lines. No one is exempt, and no one receives water without carrying the gallons themselves. Even a doctor waits in line like anyone else before heading to work at the hospital.
Families, including my own, spend their days doing exhausting chores that, before the war, would have taken no more than fifteen minutes. Now these tasks consume the entire day, and entail standing in multiple queues: for fresh water, for non-potable water, for aid, for access to toilets and showers, for bread, and outside community kitchens.
Repeated displacement is another story altogether, a hardship beyond words. Each move costs exorbitant sums, often exceeding $1,300 for a distance of less than ten kilometres. The spectre of displacement haunts me daily.
Two brutal years have passed under conditions so harsh they are almost unbearable, amid insecurity, the absence of basic services, and lack of shelter. In this dire situation, I have even had to sleep without a roof over my head. I write this report while enduring both physical and psychological strain, yet there remains hope that this inferno will end, and that I, along with all my fellow journalists and our families, will survive.
Translated by Dalia Mohamed; Reviewed by Tooba Khokhar and Celine Assaf
