It is that time of year when we Palestinians seem relevant again.
My inbox is flooded with interview requests about 7 October. Media outlets are interested in hearing my thoughts on the anniversary, and journalists want to know whether I condemn Hamas or not.
But what difference does it make?
Growing up, I dreamed of the day I would wear the press vest and helmet and tell the stories of Gaza to the world through my own eyes. I wanted to tell stories about how Palestinians love life, how they try to create something out of nothing, and how they try to bounce back after Israeli aggression and continue. I wanted to tell the stories of the Gaza I know, instead of the Gaza the media focuses on only when there is Israeli aggression or genocide.
But shortly after I graduated, it was 7 October.
In no time, wearing press gear became risky. Instead of protecting journalists and media workers, it made them a target.
Since the genocide began, over 74,000 Palestinians have been killed, including over 21,000 children, and this only accounts for the official numbers. Nearly 2 million people have been displaced, and 80% of the infrastructure in the Gaza Strip has been destroyed. According to the Committee to Protect Journalists, 247 journalists have been killed, 174 injured, and 118 imprisoned.
Staying alive
For the first 45 days of the genocide, I was on the ground reporting closely with two colleagues, Hatem Rawagh and Mohammed Abu Safia. They were both fathers, carrying the responsibility of staying strong and, most importantly, alive for their children. They held on to the hope of watching them grow up, giving them a future, and seeing them live in a better world than the one they were reporting on.
I still remember how Nour, Mohammed’s youngest daughter, would call him while we were out in the field reporting. She would tell him “bahebak” (I love you) in her soft voice, still learning how to pronounce the word. I could see how those words affected him each time he heard them.
His family has always been his reason for living, but Mohammed’s desire to tell the world the truth in hopes that this carnage could end forced him to stay away from them. Every day, he wondered whether it was safe to visit his family, or whether going would put them at more risk of being targeted.
His biggest fear was that Israel would kill them because of his profession, and that he’d remain alive to bear that agony.
He thought a lot about what Wael Dahdouh endured. After learning that his family had been killed by an Israeli airstrike, the Al Jazeera journalist had to report on the tragedy.
This was not the only loss we shared.
Belal Jadallah, the founder of Press House Palestine, who was a father figure to all journalists in Gaza, was also targeted and killed by Israel. He trained so many of us, including how to stay safe and how to be careful with our language and terminology because of the weight they carried for the wider world.
I was with Hatem when he told us the news: “Belal got targeted with an Israeli tank shell, or an airstrike hit his car.”
If the person who taught us how to protect ourselves could not be protected, then the vest and helmet were certainly never going to be enough.
It always felt like the only certainty in Gaza was uncertainty.
We had watched Israel kill our colleagues one after the other. Many others had also been injured or imprisoned. Each time, we’d wonder who would be next as it became harder to escape.
We were surviving one day at a time, never knowing when our turn might come.
Duty
Hatem and Mohammed are still in Gaza, still reporting. They explain: “It’s our duty.”
Part of them still wants to believe that if the world learned more about what is happening in Gaza, the genocide would stop. But now, three years into it, we know it’s not enough. Knowledge without accountability and justice means nothing.
As journalists, our responsibility is to bear witness and tell the truth, and in Gaza, we risk our lives to do it. But the responsibility cannot rest on our shoulders alone. The rest of the world must also be willing to carry that truth forward, to turn what it knows into action.
I used to dream of telling the world how Palestinians love life, how they build something out of barely anything and keep going. Instead, I have spent the last three years telling the world how they are being killed.
Whenever I see the number of journalists killed on the news, I think of the families they left behind, and of the people who are still waiting for a call that will never come. Whenever I watch the news from far away, I imagine the journalists behind the footage, standing in the same streets in the same vests, wondering if today is their turn.
Now, three years into a genocide, there is less and less coverage coming out of Gaza, and it is because journalism itself has become a target.
Despite our colleagues around the world watching so many being killed in Gaza, which sets a dangerous precedent for the future of their own work, too many are contributing to the injustice through the so-called measured language they choose, the realities they obscure, and the violence they help justify and normalise.
So every year around this time, when those press requests come flooding in, I think about the journalists who are still in Gaza, still on the ground reporting, and who will never get an email asking for their expert opinion, their experiences of tragedy and destruction.
Hatem and Mohammed say it is their duty, but it should not be theirs alone.
Plestia Alaqad is an award-winning journalist and author who has emerged as a powerful voice in digital media. She gained international recognition for her heartfelt, on-the-ground reporting during the genocide on Gaza, where her raw, personal storytelling brought global attention to the human impact of the violence. She recently published her book The Eyes of Gaza, that became an instant New York Times, Indie, San Francisco, and Boston Global Bestseller.
Follow Plestia on Instagram: @plestia.alaqad
Have questions or comments? Email us at: editorial-english@newarab.com
Opinions expressed in this article remain those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of The New Arab, its editorial board or staff.
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