Does the Palestinian journalist in Gaza have the freedom to simply “step away”? How do they navigate the balance between their professional responsibilities and their family life? And to what extent does the duty to report justify the personal cost of being separated from one’s loved ones? Journalist Jenin Al-Wadiya sheds light on the deeply human details that rarely make it to the screen.
For nearly two years, journalists in the Gaza Strip have been torn between two irreconcilable paths: the frontlines, where Israeli massacres unfold one after another, and the makeshift tents or half-standing homes where their children wait, gripping onto hope for a return that may never come. It’s a double absence, one enforced by duty, and the other impossible for a child to understand as they search for safety in a father’s embrace. At the same time, these journalists remain a piercing presence before the world, bearing witness to a war that refuses to end.
Ashraf Abu Amra, a correspondent for Al Jazeera in Deir al-Balah in central Gaza, is one such example, not an exception, but a painful emblem. He is a father of six; his eldest is 15, the youngest just five. In the span of two years of war, he has managed to visit his family only twice: once during the temporary truce in November 2023, and again during the 40-day ceasefire in January 2025.
“Field coverage demands my full presence,” Ashraf says. “But what the public doesn’t see is the fear I carry for my family, fear of being targeted simply because I am a journalist. Targeting journalists and their families has become a recurring scene in this genocide.”
Indeed, the experiences of Al Jazeera’s reporters alone illustrate a systematic and deliberate pattern of targeting. Ashraf recounts the tragedies: “It began with our colleague Wael Al-Dahdouh’s family, then Moamen Al-Sharafi, Mohammad Abu Al-Qumsan, and Anas Al-Sharif, who lost his father before we lost him too, then colleagues Mohammad Qreiqea, Mohammad Noufal, Moamen Alouiwa, Ibrahim Daher, and Mohammad Al-Khaldi, all killed in a massacre that struck the journalists’ tent in full view of the world. This is part of a long and ongoing chain.”
On camera, Ashraf tells the stories of others. Behind the scenes, he reads the stories his children send him in whispered audio notes and texts of longing. “We miss you, Dad. We’re scared without you. We just want you to be with us.” Ashraf admits, “I need them too, not just as a father, but as a human being. No one is spared in this war, and that terrifies me. It terrifies them.”
On camera, Ashraf tells the stories of others. Behind the scenes, he reads the stories his children send him in whispered audio notes and texts of longing. “We miss you, Dad. We’re scared without you. We just want you to be with us.” Ashraf admits, “I need them too, not just as a father, but as a human being. No one is spared in this war, and that terrifies me. It terrifies them.”
When Gaza loses power and communication, sometimes the only way families can confirm their loved ones are still alive is by catching a glimpse of them on Al Jazeera, if the solar-powered batteries allow it. Only then do they feel some reassurance. “My wife,” Ashraf says, “is the one who pays the highest price for my work.”
In rare moments of free time under the war, Ashraf may steal a few minutes to look at old photos or videos with his children. But when the shelling nears his home in Deir al-Balah, Ashraf says he nearly collapses. “I feel panic rise in me. I stand before the camera with my heart suspended. But I remind myself, I am the voice of two million besieged people suffering hunger, bombardment, and death. It’s a heavy responsibility. I’ve carried it since day one, and I’m always bracing myself for bad news.”
Yafa Abu Akar, also a journalist and a mother of three, works no less than ten hours a day. She says the hardest question she faces each morning is: “Where will coverage take me today? And if I work fewer hours, who will cover the story in my absence? Every moment here, a massacre demands to be documented.”
Yafa explains that everyone in Gaza suffers the same pain. However, for a journalist, it is doubly hard. “I stand in the field reporting on displacement, starvation, and killing, while my own family lives through the same tragedy.” When she sees children clinging to their mothers, she holds back tears, remembering her own children crying and begging her not to leave the house, terrified she’ll be targeted.
Yafa was forced to send her five-year-old son Anas to Egypt with his ailing grandmother, thinking it would save his life. But the voice messages keep coming, his sobs echoing: “I saw journalists being bombed. I don’t want you to be next. I don’t want you to be a journalist, Mama.”
Yafa was forced to send her five-year-old son Anas to Egypt with his ailing grandmother, thinking it would save his life. But the voice messages keep coming, his sobs echoing: “I saw journalists being bombed. I don’t want you to be next. I don’t want you to be a journalist, Mama.”
She admits that Anas has developed a phobia of her profession. To him, journalism equals danger. He constantly asks, “When will you be home? Send me a photo to prove you made it back.” Her three-year-old daughter pleads with her every morning, “Mama, don’t go. I’m scared. I want you by my side. I’m afraid you’ll die and leave us.”
Yafa’s family has been displaced multiple times. One of the homes they sheltered in was adjacent to a building that was bombed. The wounded and the dead were pulled out in front of them. “I’m someone who’s grown used to these scenes in front of a camera,” she says. “But at that moment, I froze. I didn’t know what to do.”
From the first day of the war, Yafa has never left the field. She has moved from the north of Gaza to the south. Along the way, she reported live as she mourned the deaths of her uncles, aunts, cousins, women, children, and the elderly. In every moment of emotional collapse, she fought to remain composed.
Regarding the possibility of taking a day off, Yafa reflects, “If I spend a day with my children, I’ll keep asking myself who will cover the massacre today. And if I don’t take that day, I am live on air wondering if my children need me now more than the field does.”
Even choosing to spend just a few hours with her children is terrifying. Every day, journalists and their families are targeted. The very act of returning home is laced with fear. That fear, she says, has become another reason she stays in the field longer than she can bear.
What Does the Scene Look Like in Permanent Absence?
In May 2025, Israeli occupation forces killed journalist Hassan Asliha in an airstrike that targeted the very hospital room at Nasser Medical Complex in Khan Younis where he was being treated. This came days after he was injured in a separate strike on his media tent.
Alaa Asliha, 30, Hassan’s widow and the mother of their four children, recalls with pain the days before his killing. “We went through very hard days. We didn’t see him for over a month. We were repeatedly displaced while he was far away telling other people’s stories, even as our own lives became a story of pain and survival."
Alaa Asliha, Hassan’s widow and the mother of their four children, recalls with pain the days before his killing. “We went through very hard days. We didn’t see him for over a month. We were repeatedly displaced while he was far away telling other people’s stories, even as our own lives became a story of pain and survival."
From the beginning of the war, Alaa had an unshakeable feeling that she would lose him. “Time passed so slowly for me and his children,” she says. “They kept saying, if Dad were here, things would be different. He would have found us food in the middle of the famine. They ask me every day, "Why did they kill Dad?"
Alaa speaks of Hassan’s deep connection to his work. He reported under siege, under fire, and in hunger. He risked everything to document the truth. He became known as the voice of the poor. People sought him out to raise their pleas through him. “He always told me”, she says, “that people’s voices, especially in war, were a sacred trust he carried.”
When he visited his family, it was only for a few minutes. He always feared being targeted while with them. He would rush in, and his children would run to embrace him tightly. But each time, he pulled away quickly, afraid that being near him could cost them their lives.
Despite her loss, Alaa is determined to preserve what Hassan built. She works to keep his news platforms active on social media. With help from two of his colleagues, she monitors updates from the field and official sources to ensure his audience continues to receive the truth.
In Gaza, journalists are not the only ones paying the price. Their families, their children, and their entire lives become part of the toll. The grief, fear, and forced absence endured by their children encapsulate the scale of sacrifice. The camera and the pen become burdens carried by entire households. Yet, at the same time, they remain living testaments to a truth the world must never forget.
This article was originally written in Arabic and translated into English using AI tools, followed by editorial revisions to ensure clarity and accuracy
