Gaza: the deadliest place in the world to be a journalist

On August 10, 2025, a targeted Israeli airstrike on a media tent outside Gaza City’s al-Shifa Hospital killed Al-Jazeera correspondent Anas al-Sharif, along with three of his colleagues. Al-Jazeera called it a “blatant and premeditated attack on press freedom.” The Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) confirmed that the strike was the single deadliest attack on media workers since the Israel–Gaza war began in October 2023. Al- Sharif’s final social media post, quoted in The Guardian, read: “If these words reach you … Israel has succeeded in killing me.” The words have since echoed as a plea not to let Gaza disappear from global attention.

Al-Sharif, only 28, had become one of the most familiar faces reporting from Gaza in his commitment to showing the city’s suffering under bombardment. Israel later claimed without offering verifiable proof, that Al-Sharif was “the head of a terrorist cell,” a characterization widely rejected by press freedom organizations as unsubstantiated. Press freedom organizations, including the Committee to Protect Journalists and Reporters Without Borders, rejected the accusation without credible evidence, describing it as an unsubstantiated smear likely intended to justify an attack on a journalist. Al-Sharif’s killing prompted a wave of protests and vigils worldwide, from Cape Town and Manila to London, Mexico City, Dublin, Oslo, Berlin, Karachi, and Ramallah. Demonstrators in Houston also gathered outside a local TV station, denouncing media misrepresentation of Gaza and calling for justice for the slain journalists. This has prompted calls from PEN America and from UN Secretary-General António Guterres and the UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, for an independent investigation into whether the deliberate targeting of journalists may constitute as a war crime.

The number of journalists killed in Gaza has not been verified. According to the United Nations, 242 journalists have been killed since October 2023. The International Federation of Journalists (IFJ) reports at least 180, while the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) puts the figure at 192, making it the deadliest conflict for journalists on record. Regardless of the estimation, the reality for journalists in Gaza is grim. With foreign media effectively barred from entering Gaza, local journalists carry the weight of documenting the war. Their deaths create information black holes at a time when knowledge is most needed.

The United States: hostility turned into policy

The United States has long styled itself as a champion of free press, but recent developments tell a more complicated story. On July 29, 2025, Federal Communications Commissioner Anna Gomez formally issued a dissent against the FCC’s approval of the Paramount– Skydance merger. She warned that the government’s approach to media regulation amounts to “a campaign of censorship and control,” expressing her concern for the erosion of media independence.

Congress has also responded to the growing hostility toward the press. In May 2025, the Senate introduced Resolution 205, a measure condemning Donald Trump’s repeated denunciations of the press and restating the U.S. commitment to press freedom as a democratic cornerstone. Though S.Res. 205 has yet to pass, its introduction signals official concern within Congress about the growing normalization of anti-press rhetoric, especially following repeated attacks by then- President Trump on the “fake news” media, a trend widely denounced as a threat to democratic norms. He has, during his presidency, branded journalists as “enemies of the people.” This language, once shocking, has troublingly become part of mainstream political language in the US.

That hostility is not confined to political rhetoric, it has material consequences on the ground, where reporters covering protests and immigration enforcement have been detained or threatened with deportation. In June, DeKalb County police arrested Atlanta journalist Mario Guevara while he was livestreaming a protest, and local authorities handed him over to ICE custody just days after all criminal charges had been dropped. He remains in immigration detention despite being granted bond, a case press-freedom advocates, including the ACLU, CPJ, Free Press, and the Atlanta Press Club, have described as a “grim erosion of both freedom of the press and the rule of law”. A month later, Covington police arrested two CityBeat journalists, reporter Madeline Fening and intern Lucas Griffith, while covering a protest, drawing criticism from press-freedom groups. Both initially faced felony rioting charges, which were later dismissed. They now continue to face several misdemeanor charges, including disorderly conduct and failure to disperse. Advocacy groups, led by the National Press Club, denounced the arrests as “a direct assault on the First Amendment,” asserting that using criminal charges to intimidate journalists is unacceptable.

This trend within the United States has been observed internationally. Reporters Without Borders confirms that in 2025, the United States ranked 57th out of 180 countries, now classified in a “problematic situation”, on the World Press Freedom Index. They have attributed the decline to heightened political hostility, economic instability, and corporate consolidation. CPJ’s own assessment of Trump’s first 100 days back in office concluded that press freedom is “no longer a given.”

Kenya: silencing dissent on live television

Across the globe in Nairobi, the press is also under pressure. On June 25, amid nationwide protests over police brutality and government corruption, the Kenyan government banned live TV coverage, ordered broadcasters off air, and disrupted transmissions. During the protests, NTV journalist Ruth Sarmwei was struck by a rubber bullet while reporting live, and at least one other journalist was also injured.

The High Court of Kenya swiftly intervened. Justice Chacha Mwita ruled that the ban violated constitutional protections for free expression and ordered the Communications Authority to restore broadcasts. In response, the Law Society of Kenya, joined by over 20 civil society groups, condemned the directive as “a dangerous step towards suppressing fundamental freedoms.” They warned that even in a democracy, such tactics signal how quickly media freedom can be revoked when authorities feel their narrative is threatened. Human rights groups say this reflects a deeper erosion: Kenya is often upheld as a regional model for media freedom, yet security forces routinely crack down on journalists during periods of political unrest.

A worldwide pattern of control

These episodes of censorship, intimidation, and violence against journalists are not isolated. In Gaza, the IDF is killing journalists at an unprecedented rate. In the United States, political hostility and regulatory maneuvering are shrinking media independence. In Kenya, broadcast bans and state intimidation curtail citizens’ access to information.

The 2025 World Press Freedom Index by RWB described the global media landscape as “difficult,” warning that even established democracies are slipping. Gaza, in particular, stands out for its unprecedented journalist death toll, but the crisis is not only about violence. Reporters Without Borders emphasizes that economic fragility, manifesting through shrinking newsroom resources, reliance on political advertisers, and corporate consolidation, has become an increasingly insidious threat to press freedom. This has left media outlets more exposed to censorship, disinformation, and undue influence from political and economic elites.

Why this matters

When Al-Jazeera declared after al-Sharif’s death that “targeting journalists is targeting the truth itself,” the statement echoed warnings from press freedom groups that such attacks undermine democracy and the public’s right to know. A free press is often described as democracy’s “fourth estate,” underscoring its role in holding institutions accountable. In Gaza, killing reporters ensures that atrocities remain unseen. In Washington DC, political hostility and regulatory maneuvering are eroding media independence and undermining accountability. In Nairobi, blackouts deprive citizens of real-time information during protests. The National Public Radio recently put it this way: when journalists are harassed or killed, “the public loses its most vital connection to accountability.”

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The Booze

Expectation: In a massive open-plan bar, pitchers of (free) beer spray down from a number of hands ornamenting the 19th-century twisting staircase as Froshies, with their heads up and their tongues out, consume enough beer to feed a frat for a semester. The floor of the bar is covered in a two-foot layer of a mixture of both alcohol and vomit. By the end of the night, there are so many casualties that residence halls are no more than 50% full and will not recover the entirety of their population until weeks after.

Reality: Frosh is definitely not an alcohol-free event, so quality, quantity and pricing of alcohol is central to many Froshies’ experience. Frosh (at least for the Arts faculty) was priced at over 200 dollars, not including additional alcohol expenses. For many Froshies, buying your own drinks made budgeting a necessity when it came to their drinking. For others, pockets were being emptied so often at so many different places for drinks that were obviously overpriced that from my point of view it seemed like these folks were trying to spend as much money as possible. However, it was definitely possible to get drunk for every event for no more than 100 dollars total.

The actual drinking was not as intense as many anticipated. I personally did not see anyone throw up, although there have been rumours that the Management faculty may not have been the most responsible with their drinking. Froshie Andrew of the Management faculty alluded to something called a “power hour,” although he refused to elaborate on that particular line of questioning. In general, people were consistently a bit drunk, rather than sometimes sober and other times blacking out.

The Frosh Leaders

Expectation:

All Frosh leaders are sober and responsible at all times. Froshies are expected to have fun with respect to their leaders’ crowd control efforts.

Reality: Frosh was more intense than I and many others expected.  It is not that the leaders were irresponsible – I want to make it clear that many of them did an amazing job making Frosh what it was, but it was certainly odd to see Mr. “Frosh is a privilege that we must uphold!” lying down hammered on the lawn outside McConnell Engineering Building at 1pm on a Tuesday. From my perspective, for the leaders, Frosh is an excuse to get drunk for a few days (although this obviously is not the case for everyone), which seems fair enough. 

Thankfully, the leaders’ enthusiasm did make Frosh more exciting. The dedication these people had to pre-gaming (drinking at one of the leaders’ apartments before going out) at every event was impressive. Letting twenty Froshies drink heavily in your living room is a bold decision. Bold, however, is not strong enough to describe our dear leaders’ exploits. There were pre-games for the boat cruise at 6am. My dad doesn’t even wake up this early. A 6am pre-game means you have to get up at 5am. The respect I have for those who held the events that early is genuinely unmatched.

Making Friends

Expectation: As I walk down the steps of Stewart, I cross the other side of Doctor Penfield Avenue, where I am stopped by two guys who give me a quick little dap up and then continue on past me. I walk for no longer than thirty seconds before I stop and chat with a couple of girls. Telling them I have to leave, I scurry on towards the steps in front of Leacock, high-fiving people sporadically as my trot increases to a scamper. I make a quick right turn and enter the Redpath Library. Looking around the premises as if I were a spy, I dart through the door and down the steps to the marvelous bottom floor where I spot my real friends.

Every single character in this scenario I met at Frosh.

Reality: My personal expectations for Frosh may have been hyperbolic at best. Of course, not every single person in my Frosh group would become my best friend, because in theory you can only have one best friend and groups, by definition, have more than one person. Many Froshies did not make the life-long connections they had anticipated making. It seems as if many of the best friendships were made at more sober camping and climbing Froshes. In fact, my roommate was part of Camping Frosh, and he still hangs out with the people he met  almost every day. Most other Frosh programs consisted of events with loud music and drinking, and while that was incredibly fun, it made it harder to have more than a surface level conversation with them. It has only been a week or so (at the time of writing) since Frosh ended, and I do not really know anybody who stayed friends with people from their Frosh group.

Conclusion

Frosh did not meet expectations. For many, it subverted them in a weird, modern art-esque way. Frosh was neither good nor bad; it wasn’t even ugly. The only true statement about Frosh 2025 at McGill University is that it happened.

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In 1961, the Freedom Riders were formed in the United States. This group consisted of black and white American men protesting segregated transit systems by travelling across the country together and fighting racism side by side. Simultaneously, on the other end of the globe, the Mahar writers and poets of India established the Dalit Panthers in 1972. This radical organization, inspired by the Black Panthers, protested the institutionalized caste discrimination faced by Dalits or “untouchables”: the lowest ranked group in the Indian caste system. The Dalit Panthers wrote speeches and produced art, such as pocket-sized political zines, denouncing inequality while also organizing self-defense initiatives. Overall, the thread that weaved these acts of resistance together was not a focus on individual identity, but instead, an affirmation of solidarity despite differences, and the active fight for justice.

Today, we have resorted to land acknowledgements and digital guides navigating the guilt associated with injustice rather than the issue of injustice itself. 

Contemporary social justice movements in North America have made considerable achievements in integrating critical theory into mainstream political consciousness. The works of notable thinkers such as bell hooks or Kimberlé Crenshaw have shaped our understanding of subjugation, emphasizing that the intersection of our various identities – whether that be class and race or religion and gender – influences the way we experience the world around us. 

Nonetheless, the forms of resistance that have arisen from these theories lack key elements needed to unify different parties into a joint struggle: a true sense of solidarity and partnership.  

Instead, the notion of allyship has dominated activist spaces and literature. Defined by Oxford English Dictionary as the “ the state or condition of being a person who supports the rights of a minority or marginalized group without being a member of it,” this concept provides clear guidelines on how those sympathetic to social justice movements should represent, speak to, and show up for people within marginalized communities. When examining the term “ally” from a political context, however, allyship often implies impermanence. Allies are made in times of war and often under strict conditions. Allies aim to further the interests of both groups involved in the partnership for the time being and can quickly be disentangled. Allies are not your fellow friends and partners, nor are they your brothers or sisters. 

When we apply these ideas of conditionality to social activism, we pigeonhole ourselves into a strict set of rules concerning how we engage with others. Not only does this approach frame people as a single monolith, reducing the identities of those within minority groups to their oppression, but it also ensures we centre ourselves and our own feelings of guilt over the actual complex issues facing marginalized communities.

A tenet of allyship has been the overemphasis on the experience of privilege rather than totalizing social hierarchies. However, when our activism solely examines our own complicity in systems of power, we maintain dominant cultural narratives, guaranteeing that the stories with the most visibility in mainstream media are our own and not those of the communities we claim to uplift. Taking this idle position in the creation of art and scholarship ensures that people of colour, queer folk, people with disabilities, and all groups that are already pushed to the margins of social structures are additionally pushed to those of creative endeavours. Rather than taking charge of our activism through direct action and close collaboration with these communities, we isolate ourselves to our own experiences. 

In short, when we uplift voices by creating a comfortable distance between ourselves and the communities we wish to support, we prevent true bonds of solidarity and camaraderie from taking shape. 

Still, the fear of fully absorbing ourselves in the lived experiences of others does come with valid concerns. Overgeneralizations and the misrepresentation of groups can perpetuate false narratives, further obscuring the lived realities of marginalized people. Scholars attempting to capture the Middle East and Asia have sensationalized these regions and its people. Queer love in film and television is often hypersexualized. However, similarly to the notion of allyship, these depictions often centre privileged voices and gazes within discussions on marginalization. They do not aim to understand communities facing marginalization, and as a result, they fail to meaningfully collaborate with members of these groups to challenge oppressive systems. 

We must stop pretending that there is not more nuance to the simple binaries of privileged and oppressed, powerful and powerless. While social structures predetermine the manner in which we perceive others and the way we are perceived, the only way to break free from this condition is to actually engross ourselves in the struggles and stories of others. An allyship that reinforces the divisions between communities does not achieve this. 

We need to create a new conceptualization of active solidarity that does not create false representations of marginalized groups, does not centre our own guilt, and tangibly engages with systems of oppression. We must question the passive, unmoving, and unchanging idea of an ally and submerge ourselves in the struggles of others.

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I wrote this in the aftermath of Charlie Kirk’s death: a conservative activist known for his Christian identity and his strong defense of the Second Amendment. He was shot and killed at a university event in Utah as part of his “American Comeback” tour. What quickly followed was a chaotic spectacle of polarization online. Some celebrated his death, others mourned him as a man of God. Still, many insisted that his murder was a karmic inevitability as a result of his advocacy. Though the motive for his murder is presently unclear, what we do know is that his death immediately became a battleground for political labelling.

This is one of the many issues I have with political labelling. It pulls us into the binary logics of the colonial gaze: left or right, good or evil, martyr or monster. It causes us to overlook complexity and disables our ability to focus on our reality, the harm Kirk’s politics mobilized and the simultaneous grief that comes with any death. After reading the reactions to his death, I had sat with this question: if we celebrate the killing of someone we despise, are we also mirroring the very violence we condemn elsewhere? That’s not to invalidate the very harms his actions have taken against my own communities. What happens when those who honour his death neglect to also hold him accountable? What happens to those left with the damage of his legacy? In this binary logic, there is little space for the full spectrum of grief.

Political labels by design seek to simplify and contain our humanity into tidy boxes easily
controlled and regulated. But simplification also produces the erasure of lived realities and lived suffering. One of my Elders reminded me recently of the interdependence between all living beings (yes, not just humans) and the choices that ripple out beyond the temporary labels that we carry. The colonial gaze we’ve all been conditioned by imposes categories of race, gender, identity, and nation by flattening complexity and forcing people into boxes to serve systems, not life.

Therein lies the tension I feel with theory because it alone cannot be our saviour from this predicament. As Black feminist and poet Audre Lorde said, “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” If we continue to debate within the confines of identity labels placed upon us – left versus right, liberal versus conservative – we continuously reinforce the systems of categorization in place. The real harms that continue today in prisons, of colonial violence, of alarming housing and food injustices, of inaccessible healthcare, persist unrefuted.

Meanwhile, on the internet, people are fighting over who gets to claim a moral victory over Kirk’s death. But the internet is not the real world. It is one technological aspect of it built in binary code and transformed into a “culture” that profits off of division and rage, while the real world goes on. The orange hue of the sun continues to shine, the trees continue to release oxygen, and communities continue to fight despite ongoing injustices. It’s easy to get lost in the internet delusion and use up all our energy in online reactions, to the effect that we don’t have capacity any longer for the real work of change.

But real mobilization is happening. Here in Tiohtià:ke (Montreal), the tenants’ union SLAM-MATU valiantly fought and won against a 19.8% rental hike as a result of collective organizing. In British Columbia, the Supreme Court recognized the Haida Nation as having complete sovereignty over the terrestrial areas of Haida Gwaii. These actions are not about labels, but are about innate human needs for food, housing, support, and collective care. They are about living in respectful and reciprocal relationships with one another.

So, what do we want to build? An internet world where labels rule and transactions thrive, or a living world where relationships are essential and transformational? What are we able to learn when we stop obsessing over who is right or wrong online, and instead ask what the people around us need? What movements can we organize, here and now, where we are?

Charlie Kirk’s death shows us what happens when labels consume us. In this space, nuance disappears, violence becomes a spectacle, and we lose sight of what liberation demands. True liberation does not grow from ideological purity or choosing the right side of the internet war. It comes from rebuilding our relationships, restoring the deficit of trust between strangers, and cultivating communities of care. Start small. Start local. Start with who is in your life. It’s the micro shifts that make the macro change possible.

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Adopted on May 30, 2025, Quebec’s Bill 89 amends the Labour Code to “give greater consideration to the needs of the population in the event of a strike or a lock-out,” by ensuring the continuation of “services ensuring the well-being of the population.” The Act empowers the government to designate disputes for review by the Administrative Labour Tribunal, which can order that such services be maintained and, if negotiations fail, impose conditions itself. While strikes and lock-outs may continue, they can be suspended in “exceptional circumstances.” According to Evan Fox-Decent, law professor
and president of the Association of McGill Professors of Law, “this legislation represents a frontal attack on workers’ fundamental rights.” For McGill faculty unions, this bill significantly curtails the effectiveness of strikes by limiting the possible leverage of work stoppages and narrowing the scope of legitimate collective action against the administration. This bill also generates a chilling climate of deterrence, where professors, staff, and students, fearing retaliation, may refrain from publicly endorsing or joining mobilizations. Without explicit backing from faculty unions, student strikes lose a crucial source of momentum and legitimacy, weakening student solidarity actions.

In April, the pro-Palestinian student group Students for Palestinian Honour and Resistance (SPHR) organized a three-day demonstration on campus calling for McGill to cut ties with institutions and companies linked to Israel. The university responded by securing an injunction from the Quebec Superior Court judge. The ruling barred protests within five metres of McGill buildings and prohibited activities that could disrupt classes or exams. While directly aimed at weakening SPHR, the injunction sets a broader precedent as the administration can now swiftly resort to the courts to neutralize any disruptive student mobilizations. This fosters a climate of self-censorship, especially since both protesters and “any person aware of the judgment,” even if they aren’t directly related to SPHR, can risk legal consequences. The spatial restrictions also undercut the visibility and effectiveness of protests, discouraging broader participation.

In the aftermath of the April protests, McGill attempted to terminate its contractual relationship with SSMU. The Memorandum of Agreement (MoA) is the formal contract that governs the relationship between McGill University and the Students’ Society of McGill University, outlining the rights, responsibilities, and financial arrangements between the two parties.

It gives SSMU official recognition as the undergraduate student association, allowing it to collect fees, use campus space, and represent students in dealings with the administration. In return, the MoA sets out standards of accountability, compliance with university regulations, and conditions under which the agreement can be reviewed or terminated. McGill can default on the MoA if it determines that SSMU has breached its obligations, such as failing to comply with university policies or legal requirements, since the MoA gives the administration the authority to terminate or suspend the agreement on those grounds.

McGill Interim Deputy Provost Angela Campbell accused the organization’s leadership of not dissociating itself from groups that “endorse or engage in acts of vandalism, intimidation and obstruction as forms of activism.” By moving to terminate this agreement, this threatened to strip SSMU of resources essential for organizing large-scale student movements, including funding, office space, and institutional recognition.

Following a mediation process of several months, McGill and SSMU announced that the MoA will remain in effect, with revisions. The agreement removed certain restrictions on SSMU election eligibility, while also reaffirming limits on protests that involve disruption of academic activities, vandalism, or intimidation. Although this resolution preserved the student union’s legal footing, it underscores how fragile the student unions’ position remains by demonstrating McGill’s willingness to use the threat of institutional withdrawal as leverage. Even with the renewed MoA, the imposed boundaries signal that student mobilization is tolerated only within tightly controlled parameters.

In essence, these developments leave students with fewer institutional resources, greater legal risks, and diminished means of mobilizing, as they have increasingly become
vulnerable to administrative and legal suppression.

Despite these obstacles, history demonstrates that student activism adapts and survives. When direct forms of protest have been suppressed, activists turn to innovative, symbolic ways to continue resisting oppressive systems even when traditional avenues are restricted.

The 2012 Maple Spring was a series of student protests against the proposal to raise university tuition significantly. Throughout this mobilization, protesters faced restrictive legislation, including an emergency law forbidding protests near university grounds and requiring police approval for large public protests (Bill 78), while the municipality of Montreal passed a law prohibiting mask-wearing during any organization or demonstration. In response, the movement devised innovative tactics, such as the “casseroles” actions, nightly balcony protests where citizens banged pots and pans in support of the movement. What began as a creative way to work around restrictions soon spread across the province, illustrating how repressive measures can inadvertently spark innovation.

Furthermore, to ensure no single administrative decision can dissolve student mobilization, a more decentralized and diversified organization strategy is necessary. A constellation of faculty and department-level assemblies, along with alliances beyond campus, can build resilience. When student struggles are tied to a broader community and labour issues, they gain both legitimacy and power. In 2012, opposition to Bill 78 quickly escalated from a tuition protest into a province-wide movement, drawing labor unions, teachers, and even the Quebec Bar Association in protesting for civil rights. Similarly, today, multiple faculty associations at McGill are already challenging Bill 89, citing its violations of constitutional rights by forcing workers to “work against their will, under conditions that are not of their choosing,” as noted by McGill Professor of Sociology Barry Eidlin. By aligning with these efforts, students can position their struggles within a broader fight for democratic liberties and workers’ rights.

History has proven that student mobilization consistently plays a fundamental role in contributing to change. From the fight against South Africa’s apartheid, where McGill notably became the first Canadian university to divest from the National Party’s brutal regime, to more recently, to the Board of Governors’ unanimous decision to divest from fossil fuel companies after a decade of student pressure, students have time and time again demonstrated their ability to push institutions toward greater accountability. These precedents, along with current movements, suggest that while the frameworks for protest may change, mobilization at McGill can continue by embracing decentralization, creativity, and solidarity.

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The death toll keeps rising, and Gaza’s population is declining. Mass killings by Israeli airstrikes and Israel’s blockade of food supplies have resulted in widespread suffering and starvation among Palestinians. Just a few weeks ago, the United Nations (UN) declared famine in the Gaza Strip. 

As of September 1, the recorded number of famine-induced deaths stands at 361, including 130 children, according to Al-Jazeera. 

Throughout these past seven hundred days, Israel’s blatant violations of humanitarian law have been thoroughly documented by Palestinian journalists. In response, Israel has escalated its systematic targeting of the press in Gaza.

On August 10, Israel attacked a press tent located outside of al-Shifa hospital, murdering six Al-Jazeera correspondents, among them renowned and beloved-by-all journalist, Anas al-Sharif. The attack also killed correspondent Mohammed Qreiqeh, camera operators Ibrahim Zaher and Mohammed Noufal, freelance cameraman Momen Aliwa, and freelance journalist Mohammed al-Khalidi. 

Anas al-Sharif is one of the many media professionals who have been targeted by the Israeli government during this genocide. He was a 28-year-old journalist who had reported extensively from the north of Gaza since the start of the genocide. He gained an extensive following in the past two years, one of his most famous televised sections being his jubilant announcement confirming the ceasefire this past January. In the televised segment, Al-Sharif stood tall, surrounded by his peers, speaking into the microphone, and removed his press vest in a symbolic gesture marking the end of the genocide, and his coverage of the scene. 

Seven months later, Israel killed him.

Just two weeks after al-Sharif’s assassination, Israel murdered five journalists and several healthcare workers in a double-tap strike on Nasser Hospital.

As of September 1, Al-Jazeera reports the total number of martyred journalists has risen to at least 278 since October 7, 2023. These attacks are part of Israel’s widespread efforts to erase first-hand documentation of its crimes against Palestinians. 

Ayham Al-Sahli, Palestinian journalist from Haifa, wrote in an opinion piece for Al-Akhbar newspaper, “One of the major challenges in Gaza is the lack of strong independent Palestinian media institutions capable of preserving and managing such an archive. Aside from the official Palestinian news agency WAFA, and a few others that have attempted to work in Gaza, no Palestinian body is maintaining a comprehensive record of the way. After two years, much of their capacities to continue operations have diminished, leaving the substantial archives in the hands of foreign media organizations.”

This comment sheds light on major issues regarding Palestinian press safety. The absence of archival preservation from Palestinian journalists on the genocide is directly linked to the ongoing killings of journalists. Thus, this leads to a strong deficit in authentic, native, on-the-ground storytelling, leaving the reporting up to “foreigners.”

The targeting of Palestinian journalists dates back to before the start of the Gaza genocide. In May 2022, Al-Jazeera reporter Shireen Abu-Akleh was shot in the head and killed by Israeli soldiers while covering a raid in Jenin, a city in the occupied West Bank. 

Abu-Akleh was a prominent name, having reported for Al-Jazeera for more than 25 years. Several Israeli Defense Force (IDF) statements claimed she got caught in a crossfire between soldiers and Palestinian resistance fighters, but those were quickly disproven. Abu-Akleh was wearing a press vest and standing with other journalists when she was killed. 

The press vest should have been enough to protect Shireen Abu-Akleh.

The press vest should have been enough to protect Anas al-Sharif. 

The press vest should be enough to protect journalists from being targeted. 

Since 1977, the Geneva Convention has implemented amendments to clauses asserting the protection of journalists. Moreover, the United Nations website sets journalism as being “fundamental for sustainable development, human rights protection, and democratic consolidation.” In 2012, the UN implemented the “Plan of Action on the Safety of Journalists and the Issue of Impunity” addressing the prevention of violence against journalists and the protection of the press. Yet these suggestions are not legally binding, leaving journalists vulnerable to attacks by repressive regimes.

Under international humanitarian law, journalists in armed conflict hold civilian status and must be protected. Yet, when it comes to Palestinian journalists, we see nothing but frivolous words of sorrow, prayers, and eulogies. 

In fact, at the time of al-Sharif’s martyrdom, CNN and BBC made it a point to link him to the Islamist resistance group, Hamas. La Presse goes so far as to highlight Israeli claims of al-Sharif being a “terrorist posing as a journalist,” despite al-Sharif’s numerous statements that he was a journalist with no political affiliations. Such accusations and harmful narratives have only one aim: to dehumanize Palestinian journalists, and shut down any and all solidarity with them.

This begs the question: what qualifies as being a journalist? And why is it that some journalists’ lives matter more than others? 

Al-Sharif and his peers have to work twice as hard as others to prove their journalistic integrity and commitment to the truth, while they stand strong in the face of dangers some of us will never be brave enough to even face. In addition to being systematically hunted down by Israel, Palestinian journalists also face the delegitimization of their profession. 

As journalists who are committed to reporting on the truth, we cannot remain silent while our peers in Palestine are being martyred. We must push for their security, fight to keep their voices heard, and preserve their dignity. An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us. 

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