Today, Gaza’s journalists walk a razor’s edge between bearing witness and becoming casualties themselves. For Nour Swiriki, a 37-year-old reporter for El Sharq TV, each dawn brings a familiar, chilling refrain exchanged among colleagues: “Today is not your turn.” It’s a grim mantra in a place where, according to the Palestinian Journalists Syndicate, 240 journalists have been killed over the past 22 months of Israeli bombardment. As Swiriki told ABC News, “Many of us were killed, others were injured, others lost their limbs. One of us was burnt alive in front of the world, another had his head blown out.”
Swiriki’s ordeal is emblematic of the perilous existence Gaza’s media workers now endure. She and her husband, fellow journalist Salem El Rayyes, have been displaced repeatedly since October 2023, never able to settle for long. Their lives were upended in April last year when, fearing for their children’s safety, they sent 12-year-old Jamal and 14-year-old Aliaa to Cairo. The couple intended to follow within weeks, but the closure of the Rafah crossing has kept them separated for 16 agonizing months. “Why am I forced — under Israeli fire — to hide my children, to have them away from my embrace and have them grow up away from me because I chose to be a journalist?” Swiriki asked, her voice heavy with both defiance and heartbreak.
Swiriki is far from alone. More than 800 Palestinian media workers remain in Gaza, according to the PJS, and many feel they are in a “queue to death.” The day-to-day struggle is not just about reporting—it’s about survival. “What are we going to do so we can live? How are we going to get food today? What are the prices at supermarkets today? How am I going to get to work?” Swiriki explained to ABC News, describing the constant calculations required to simply make it through the day.
International humanitarian law is clear: journalists are civilians and must not be targeted in armed conflict. Yet, as Swiriki points out, these protections seem absent in Gaza. “In other wars, the vest and helmets are signs to keep open fire away. This is the norm in the world but not in Gaza,” she said. “It tells me one thing — that my life is worth nothing to the world.”
The dangers journalists face were thrown into stark relief on August 25, 2025, when Israeli forces shelled Nasser Hospital in Khan Yunis—not once, but twice within ten minutes. According to BBC Verify and the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), the so-called “double tap” strike killed at least 22 people, including five journalists: Hussam al-Masri, Mariam Abu Dagga, Mohammed Salama, Moaz Abu Taha, and Ahmed Abu Aziz. Such double strikes, which target first responders and survivors of the initial blast, are considered violations of the Geneva Conventions of 1949 and international principles of warfare.
The Israeli Defense Forces claimed the strike was aimed at a “Hamas camera” but provided no evidence and did not acknowledge the second strike. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s office described the incident as a “tragic mishap,” offering no further explanation. CPJ chief executive Jodie Ginsberg voiced the frustration felt by many: “Israel’s initial report … does not explain why an Israeli tank fired on Reuters camera operator Hussam Al-Masri and the news agency’s visible, live-feed camera that had been filming from that location daily for several weeks. Nor does it explain why first responders — including other journalists — were targeted in an apparent so-called ‘double tap’ strike on the same location.”
For those on the ground, the consequences are immediate and devastating. Mazen Breem, a camera operator for Al Ghad TV, has lived in a tent behind Nasser Hospital for over a year, relying on the hospital’s electricity and internet to do his job. He witnessed the strikes firsthand, describing how his colleagues rushed to the fourth floor for better connectivity—only to be caught in the second blast. “All the journalists go, ‘Oh my god, oh my god, now the Israelis killed the journalists, and killed the firemen and killed the doctors,’” Breem recalled. “The war kill everyone … the baby, the woman, the man. The building, the trees … everything dies here … the animals.”
According to the CPJ, nearly 200 journalists have been killed in the Israel-Hamas war as of August 29, 2025—nearly all of them Palestinians. This makes it the deadliest conflict for journalists since the CPJ began tracking such data in 1992. The organization, along with others, is calling for independent investigations into the attacks, labeling them as apparent war crimes. Yet Israel has banned international media from independently entering Gaza since October 7, 2023, leaving Palestinian journalists to shoulder the burden of reporting—and the risks—alone.
The consequences of this isolation are profound. Foreign media organizations, including Agence France-Presse, Associated Press, BBC News, and Reuters, have pleaded with Israel to allow the evacuation of their freelance contributors and families from Gaza. Hunger and danger have made reporting nearly impossible. After the death of its camera operator at Nasser Hospital, Reuters announced it would stop sharing the locations of its teams in Gaza with the Israeli military, noting that Israel was well aware that multiple news organizations were operating from the hospital—one of the “nerve centres for coverage out of Gaza.”
The loss of journalists like Mariam Dagga, who had been working for The Associated Press since October 2023, is felt far beyond the newsroom. Dagga’s recent reporting from Nasser Hospital brought the human toll of the conflict into sharp focus: children suffering from starvation, families torn apart, and a community on the brink. A United Nations-backed monitor determined last week that famine conditions exist in parts of Gaza, a finding Israel called an “outright lie.” Humanitarian groups have accused Israel of “weaponization of aid,” while Israel denies restricting food entry.
In the fog of war, the role of journalists as independent witnesses is more vital than ever. Their work brings truth to light, holds the powerful to account, and ensures that the suffering of civilians does not go unseen. As one editorial noted, “Every senseless death is a spark extinguished. The deaths of photojournalist Mariam Dagga, reporter Ahmed Abu Aziz, video journalist Hussam al-Masri, camera operator Mohammed Salama and video journalist Moaz Abu Taha represent not just lives lost, but eyes gone dark. They rushed into chaos to bear witness for the rest of us.”
For Swiriki, the dream is simple: an end to the killing and destruction, and a chance to be reunited with her children. “I wouldn’t dare to dream of more than that,” she said. “I miss hugging them. I want to have them sleep in my arms. I just miss living as a human who has the right to live these emotions.”