Since the start of Israel’s war on Gaza in October 2023, at least 178 journalists and media workers have been killed – an unprecedented slaughter. I’ve watched colleagues be beheaded by missiles, others torn apart in their cars clearly marked “PRESS”. I’ve seen one of us lose his son, another lose his brother. I’ve seen one burned alive, trapped under the flaming rubble of a newsroom that became his tomb. Their screams still echo in my ears.
And yet, every morning, I get up. I put on my vest, heavy with the weight of my fallen colleagues. I walk out into the chaos, knowing it might be the last time. The vest that’s supposed to protect me? It doesn’t. It’s just fabric now – a warning to the world that I might not make it back. Still, I wear it. Because the truth must be told. Because we are the last eyes left inside Gaza.
I began working as a freelance journalist for international news outlets in late September 2024. I always wanted to be a writer but never thought of working in journalism before. I love studying languages and wanted to work at the UN as an ambassador or as a public speaker so I could defend my country and our cause.
Last year, a dear friend of mine who is a photojournalist saw me speaking English on my Instagram and asked if I wanted to start working as a reporter. At first, I was afraid and nervous in front of the cameras. Over time, that fear faded, and it was replaced by the fear of being murdered for my work. But, whatever happened, I promised myself I would make it my life’s purpose to report as much as I could about what we are being forced to endure.
Since becoming a journalist, my life has unravelled in real time. Every time I have found a new place to stay, the bombs have found me again. The signal bars on my phone flicker like a dying heartbeat, and when the battery dies, which is often, I scramble – desperately searching for even a whisper of electricity just to send a photo, a sentence, a single update. Sometimes, I have to walk for kilometres through shattered neighborhoods to find a generator or a hotspot. All while airstrikes roar above me.
But I keep going. I take testimonies from mothers standing beside the corpses of their children. From fathers who haven’t eaten in three days and have nothing to give their starving kids. From children who draw tanks instead of flowers. And I send them out to the world, praying someone, somewhere, will read them and feel what I feel.
We Are Not Just Journalists. We Are the Story.
Journalists are civilians. That should be enough to warrant protection. But it’s not.
We are not embedded with armies – we’re embedded in our people’s grief. We don’t parachute into Gaza for a week with flak jackets and satellite trucks. We live here. We die here. We cover stories in the morning and bury our fears in the afternoon.
And yet the international media, the very ones who depend on our footage, our words, our courage – they barely pay us. They call us “freelancers”, because it’s easier that way. No insurance. No contracts. No rights. I have not met a single reporter in Gaza who is an official employee of the news outlet or channel they are working for.
The outlets want coverage of the war, but not the responsibility of caring for those covering it. They use our reports to fill their broadcasts, but they don’t even remember our names. They ask for high-resolution images but won’t offer enough to cover a meal. We are used – bled dry and discarded.
We don’t parachute into Gaza for a week with flak jackets and satellite trucks. We live here. We die here. We cover stories in the morning and bury our fears in the afternoon.
What if I get injured or sick? I’m already experiencing health issues – like so many other people here – because of Israel’s blockade on food and everything else we need to survive. I have developed digestive issues after being diagnosed with a worm infection in my stomach, because the only thing we have to eat is canned food, which is often expired, and the only thing to drink is polluted water – and even those are scarce.
I have severe pain in my legs and my hands from a blood disorder that makes it feel like they are burning. I visited a doctor and they told me it has been made worse by malnutrition, and by standing for endless hours covering the devastation. But there is no treatment available. There is no medicine, no vitamins, no healing here anymore.
And then there is the constant threat of violence. I have no protection. If something happens, the agencies I work for definitely won’t hold themselves responsible. And I am one of the luckier ones. The outlets I freelance for provide us with better equipment and resources and more support than most.
And yet, because foreign journalists are barred from entering Gaza, Palestinian journalists are the only ones still reporting. That means every photo, every quote, every death toll you see in the world’s headlines – that’s us.
Every time I zip up my vest, I remember the face of the photographer who was burned alive. The videographer who lost his family while filming the ruins of another. This vest is not armour. It is a shroud. But I wear it anyway. Because my people need someone to tell the world what’s happening. Because silence is complicity. Because if we stop speaking, no one else will.
This Is Not Just Journalism. This Is Survival.
Global media outlets, the international community, human rights organisations: You all claim to care about freedom of the press. You post hashtags. You hold conferences. But here’s the truth: You’ve left us to die.
Just yesterday, on 13 May, Israel killed the journalist Hassan Eslaih in a targeted strike on Nasser Hospital. I remember hearing Hassan’s name since I was a child. He was already injured in a previous attack on a tent housing journalists outside the hospital and was receiving treatment when he was killed.
There is no protection. No fair pay. No press freedom here. There is only the stench of blood, the weight of loss.
There is no press freedom in Gaza. Just more funerals. More bombed homes. More press vests soaked in blood. But we stood there wearing our vests. We spoke in Arabic and English, in grief and rage. We spoke for those who cannot.
Now, attention is drifting away. There is less interest from international media outlets in stories from Gaza. It is like it was a social media trend that everyone was interested in. But now, people have gotten bored of the same stories of death and displacement. They are tired of seeing our suffering. So there is less demand for articles and live coverage, even though the violence and suffering has never been worse and the attention from the world is needed now more than ever.
On 4 May, the morning after World Press Freedom Day, I gathered with more than 40 other journalists – those of us who are still alive – for a press conference organised by the Syndicate of Palestinian Journalists. The mood was very sad. We all knew our pleas were hopeless, but we stood there and spoke about our lack of rights and how we have lost so much to deliver our stories.
There is no press freedom in Gaza. Just more funerals. More bombed homes. More press vests soaked in blood. But we stood there wearing our vests. We spoke in Arabic and English, in grief and rage. We spoke for those who cannot. We asked the world to protect us. We begged, again, for dignity, for justice, for acknowledgment. No one answered.
Not a single government offered to intervene. Not a single international outlet called to check on their freelancers. No protective force arrived. Nothing. And so we continue – alone.
To my colleagues in the international media, especially those in positions of power, if you truly believe in press freedom, demand protection for journalists in Gaza. Force media institutions to honour contracts, offer protection, to the extent that you can, and recognise the humanity of those whose stories you publish. Stop using us. Stand with us. Because if we all fall, there will be no one left to tell the story.
Edited by Eric Reidy.
