A journalist in Gaza discusses whether it is worth going before his whole family is killed or remains to tell the history of his people.
The journalist holds a camera covered with blood belonging to the Palestinian photojournalist Mariam Dagga, who was killed by an Israeli blow in Naser's hospital in Khan Unis in the southern part of gas during her funeral, on August 25, 2025.
(AFP via Getty Images)
This is midnight in the city of Gaza. Drones never leave the sky – we call them Forna– In order to drill them in our heads. Explosions go from the next area with each airstrike home, or when a remotely controlled ground vehicle – an unmanned robot filled with explosive substances, is controlled between buildings and exploded.
On the street under my window, the truck is waiting for the cones of flashlights, composed of what remains of the life of my neighbors: mattresses, blankets and wooden furniture sprayed firewood – the only fuel that remained after almost two years without gas or diesel fuel. They leave again – for the eighth time in almost two years of the war.
I am sitting in an unfinished apartment, its walls are still waking up holes from helicopter warships and fire for drones. I rented it after moving from the east of the city. Now he is a shelter to three families from my relatives. Together we discuss whether to join the convoy heading to the south. I am sure that every family in Gaza has the same conversation.
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This is the rhythm of life here: the displacement after moving, death after death, without time for mourning – only desperate attempts to save the one who remained.
I lost more than 65 relatives in this war: my mother and father, four brothers and sisters and their children. Two of my brothers were journalists: one worked with the International Information Agency; Another was the director with whom I collaborated. I myself was wounded twice. Journalism here is no longer a profession. This is a deadly gambling game. Almost two years later, Israel killed about 250 of our colleagues – journalists, filmmakers and media workers in gas.
At dawn on September 20, 2025, before I could finish writing these words, our neighbors from the Jammala family were killed. I have known them from the age of 13, when they raised their building next to ours. They lived, selling meat and driving a small grill restaurant; Their barbecue was famous, and they were generous, sharing food with the poor.
Over the past two years, their restaurant was closed, since meat and main products were prohibited. The only time we tried meat or eggs was during a short two -month ceasefire at the beginning of 2025, when limited materials were briefly allowed before suffocating again.
I remember how Mahmud, who died with his children in a bombardment, pondering me that he never thought that his children would grow up, eager for fried meat, which their family once did.
Their building was flattened. Most of the dead were children. One woman lost her husband, Mahmud and their three children; If she survives, she will live with one foot. His younger brother Haled lost his wife and all his children and will live alone. Their only “crime”, as it is, refused to run again. Their house stood next to mine, which was destroyed 22 months earlier, when most of my family was killed in the same way – because they remained. That night, I slept next to my parents when they exploded into pieces. The explosion threw me a few meters. My relatives found me, following my sound I moan under the wreckage.
Journalists and directors also have families. Many began to run south in search of safety, which does not exist. I am afraid that no one will remain to document what will happen, and we will die in silence – how the criminals intend. Every day we fight with the same question: do we stay, the cameras are open and accept the risk of death? Or are we running with our families, knowing that there is no safe place in the south?
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Israel forbade foreign journalists and directors to enter Gaza, guaranteeing that there were few, except for its version of events, can reach the outside world. Here the camera itself is considered as a goal. The neighbors are sometimes afraid to accept us, worrying that they are bombed simply because they covered the journalist. And yet this danger only deepens our sense of duty: if we are silent, only the voice of the oppressor will remain. Our responsibility is to record, insist that people here are not numbers, but people, with lives and stories that deserve to be told.
Daily survival is faced with this duty. We enter the queue with our children to fill the water jugs – our diet in the day – sometimes we call them forward, because they are small enough to slip through the crowd before the truck tank comes. I never thought that my children would live like this: in constant fear of death, collected water, cutting wood, lighting fire for the preparation, charging of phones, searching for markets for any food. This is a war of daily details.
Meanwhile, I am in a hurry to document an explosive house, a moved family or a child who has lost both parents. I am looking for an Internet signal to download unprocessed personnel or to communicate with my colleague Salah, who managed to avoid Gaza with his family at the beginning of the war so that we can edit the film together. We lived without electricity for almost two years, our offices destroyed; New equipment, spare parts and even the foundations that make us work – batteries, lenses and the like are prohibited. Nevertheless, we write down. We hold the frames raw and make only easy changes. Here stories tell themselves; A little editing is enough.
Some of our films have reached international festivals and won awards. While the audience abroad we look at them, we run between explosions, hunt for bread among the deliberate hunger, buried loved ones and fight back from despair. I often wonder how we are still tolerate.
Our films can cross the boundaries and break the siege, while we remain in a trap, running from one air strike to the next or buried under the debris. I often tell my colleagues: if the world cannot stop the genocide against us, then at least let him carry our stories. Perhaps we will not be able to protect our life, but we can fight to tell our story. And if we are killed, then those who survive must save life so that they can move our story forward.
Gas is not only “spraying news”, not only ruins, but not just hunger. These are voices, souls and human dignity, requiring recognition. If those who kill, intend to be silent, our obligation is the opposite: write down. Perhaps we will not be able to save our bodies. But we can protect the recording of our lives – and abandon the disappearance without a witness.
