A group of female journalists putting their drawings on the wall. Photo: Palestine Journalism Hub.

My work as a journalist in Gaza is an unending confrontation with pain, and one that exacts a high personal cost. When I started writing in 2024, I had to find a way to manage my own feelings and fears as I learned to put into words the almost unbearable experiences of others. I do this by staying focused on my duty to amplify the voices of my people, their suffering, and their will to survive.

I have been forcibly displaced many times. When I feel hopeless and overwhelmed, I remind myself of the importance of my work. As I have fled from one place to another, I always carry my mobile phone and a small notebook for recording details from the interviews I have conducted. I protect these two things above all else. Since childhood, I have often coped by avoiding any examination of my own pain, and I cannot  bear to watch the suffering of others. Journalism has forced me to confront the pain and misery all around me.

Maryam’s story

The first story I ever wrote was about my close friend Maryam. She was killed with her family when they were displaced and sheltering in an UNRWA school. I mourned deeply. I went over our conversations, and smiled at the funny moments we shared together, before suddenly remembering she no longer existed. I worried that grief would consume me. After two weeks, I began to accept that she was gone. I decided that whenever I thought about Maryam, I would pray for her, and occupy myself with something else. That’s how I was first motivated to tell the world about her dreams and the things she hoped to achieve, about her life before the genocide.

Writing an essay about Maryam was emotionally challenging. It took days to complete. I wanted to relate everything I knew about her, all our shared experiences as friends. But each time I thought of a new moment to include, I would break into tears and fall asleep from exhaustion. I forced myself to continue because I was committed to keeping Maryam’s memory alive. When I finished the essay, I thought I would feel some relief. My editor said the piece needed more details, but every time I tried to add more about Maryam, I was again confronted by my own feelings of loss and grief. I was spent and could not continue. The editor agreed to keep the article as it was.

The emotional toll of reporting

I moved on and continued to write. The process demanded that I listen to the suffering of others. Though I could hardly bear to know of their pain, my job was to honor it by telling the stories they could not tell themselves. I wanted to immerse the reader in all the details of the misery inflicted by genocide — the tone of an injured child’s voice, a mother’s tear-filled eyes as she spoke of a child murdered by the Israeli army.

My work has taken an emotional toll on me. There is no escape from the anguish of telling stories of misery and loss, of physical and emotional suffering. I chose a profession built on witnessing, listening, and communicating pain.

We endure by sharing the burden

In July a friend, a journalist from the West Bank, contacted me about a program supporting Palestinian journalists. I immediately registered for Shuruq Asad, and, with my friend Sujood, I have been regularly participating. Group meetings last for three consecutive days; four-hour sessions address a variety of topics and strategies for managing the psychological hardships of bearing witness to the extreme pain of life in Gaza. My group included twenty journalists, all working on the ground, documenting Israeli crimes committed against civilians.

We were all in urgent need of support, and we spoke of ways to cope with the pain of the genocide. During our time together, we got to know each other, listened to each other’s experiences, and exchanged important advice about ways to cope with the trauma that accompanies our work. My colleague Ahmed, who works as a cameraman, producer, and director, shared that, whenever he edits and organizes video footage, he mutes the original audio and plays music. He tries to find some distance from the tormented sounds of crying and screaming.

To go on, we must find a way to endure, to bear our own suffering while we report the anguish of others. There is, of course, no truly safe place in Gaza. Nonetheless, I have learned from support sessions that listening to music and drawing can provide much-needed moments of solace and shelter from the realities of my life. Shuruz Asad has helped me to feel that I am not alone, that mine is a shared burden that I, and my fellow journalists, carry together.