At the age of fifteen, and in conjunction with the Israeli war on Gaza in 2012, I began posting news updates on my personal Facebook account. That was the turning point from a boy passionate about learning more about his cause, to a young journalist striving to make others aware of it. My message has always been to convey the veiled side of the image to people around the world, the truth of the atrocities and attacks we are subjected to throughout Palestine, and Gaza in particular: the killings, the siege, the starvation by the Israeli occupation army. And to prove that, despite all of these tragedies, we have still retained our inner peace and passion for life, and our full readiness for peaceful coexistence when we obtain our legal right to establish an independent, sovereign Palestinian state at the very least along the 1967 borders.

During my journey in journalism, I have produced hundreds of reports and journalistic stories over thirteen years. I wrote, photographed, filmed, and used other formats that could carry our messages to people around world. And though many considered them distinguished, and because I believe that I am, first and foremost, a bearer of a message, I offered most of them to media outlets voluntarily and free of charge, often without even attaching my name, at the same time that I was sometimes forced to work exhausting side jobs to cover my study and living expenses. The reports and stories I produced were characterized by a focus on humanitarian issues, which formed the core of my work. I tried, as much as possible, to highlight the faces of life and love from amidst the death and destruction, for that is the most appropriate way to tell our stories so that you can learn more about our dreams and ambitions, and the love we carry for humanity. One of those stories was about my friend, Steph (Stephanie Goodger), the artist who used her art to support what she believed in and to fight injustice and oppression. I would like to take this moment to thank her for her human stance in supporting the rights of the Palestinian people, especially children, and for rejecting the atrocities we face daily because of the war. Thank you Steph, you absolutely deserve to be mentioned. Thank you for everything you do for us.

These days, I write for Nawa News Network, a local Palestinian news agency that focuses on women and children. These groups are the foundation of the human voice I seek to deliver. Over the past 13 years of work in journalism, I have also moved between many local, Arab, and international news agencies. Because of my desire to be free from commitment to any one entity, I always prefer to work independently and offer my services per assignment. Among the outlets I have worked with on a freelance basis are BBC, Asharq, Al Jazeera, the Arab World Press (AWP), and others.

And throughout this long journey, with its hardships, struggles, moments of breakdown, and others of blissful triumph, I have lived through thousands of stories that deserve to be told. I have met many truly good colleagues and friends. Some of them, like my close friends Yasser Barbakh and Nour Hajjaj, were martyred by Israeli shelling. Dozens of others too. And some, including myself, are still struggling to keep the momentum of delivering this voice to you.

It truly has been a rich journey, and I hope I survive to live through its remaining chapters, despite the pain of the tragedies that have pierced my heart and soul, leaving deep scars within me. Just like what happened with the child Ahmad Khalil, seven years old, when he told me the story of his and his family's displacement to take shelter in the Shadia Abu Ghazala School, along with dozens of families from Jabalia in northern Gaza, before it was stormed by the Israeli occupation army, armed to the teeth. It was a narrow room housing more than 30 women and children, on a dark night filled with deceptive silence, broken suddenly by a surprise raid from Israeli special forces on the school. Ahmad, his mother, and his siblings awoke in terror to the steady sound of approaching footsteps, then to the noise of a hail of gunfire. The footsteps drew nearer. A moment of silence. Then heavy gunfire again. One of the soldiers broke the classroom door they had been frozen with fear behind. Without uttering a word, he pointed his rifle at them and opened fire on everyone.

Everyone in the room was hit by at least one bullet, including Ahmad, his four siblings, and his mother, whom he saw trying to hold her youngest son to her chest as blood poured from her side. He crawled toward her with the innocence of a child clinging to his mother, despite the pain from his own shoulder wound. His hand trembled as he described to me how he placed his palm in front of his mother’s mouth, trying to see if she was still breathing. And she was. He swore to me she was still breathing when the Israeli soldiers returned again and shot her a second time. Then they took Ahmad outside, while he was battling the bleeding in his shoulder... and the bleeding of his broken heart at witnessing the execution of his mother. 

That story was just one of the thousands of tragedies I have documented. And I, too, am one of two million people in Gaza who live under the weight of death, dreaming of the end of war and survival. Clinging, despite everything, to our thirst for life. And we will continue to love life as long as we are able. As my friend Yasser Barbakh said before he was killed by an Israeli airstrike.

Basel Jarour

A journalist from devastated Gaza.

2/7/2025

To be on the verge of collapse…

Or perhaps right in the heart of the storm, in the heart of collapse — but you choose not to see it, so you can keep going.

To feel that all you need is a drop of water to drink.

To see the scale of suffering, the extent of destruction, the endless displacement.

To witness tears and cruelty, sorrow and tragedies…

And to see no joy, no achievements — not even yourself.

I once saw my graduation dream clearly.

I imagined myself standing on the graduation stage, holding my law degree after a long, exhausting struggle.

But instead… I saw blood.

I saw my uncle’s name on the list of martyrs.

I saw tears of grief, not of joy.

I watched my weight fade away day by day.

I saw my sister, suffering from a nerve disease,

Terrified of dying because she couldn’t run like us during the bombings.

I saw everything… except my dreams.

I once dreamed of becoming a famous writer.

I dreamed of securing a home for my family in a country where even the simplest rights are granted — in a place where a person’s worth is measured by their humanity, not by whether they are a man or a woman. 

I saw defeat… pain… 

A knot in my heart… 

And tears streaming down as I write. 

My dreams have evaporated — like water boiled past its limits. I wish for a storm, 

Either to take us out of here… 

Or to take us altogether. 

That would be better than hunger, better than destruction, better than blood. 

Better than our endless tears over every martyr, 

Better than the constant fear for my family whenever they step outside the house. I have seen all this… 

At the age of twenty-seven. 

An age when I was meant to dream… 

And to live. 

Through my art, I strive to shed light on deep human struggles — the pain of the poor, the forgotten, and the marginalized. Beyond my artistic practice, I am devoted to using art as a powerful tool for psychological and emotional healing. Here in Gaza, I work with children scarred by war, genocide, loss, fear, and trauma, helping them find a voice and a way to heal through creative expression. As a community activist, I dedicate my time and heart to these children.

To create art in a time when everything is falling apart is not a luxury — it is a quiet act of clinging to what still lives within us. In a moment when we lost our homes, our names, and the faces we love, painting became an act of survival, a companion voice in the weight of silence. These works are not attempts to document pain, but gentle ways of holding what remains of it. Each color carries a memory, and every shadow guards a face we can no longer see — but one that never left. I lost my father, his presence suddenly taken — without a farewell worthy of a love that spanned a lifetime. There are still words trapped in my heart, and a goodbye that never found its moment. The walls of our home vanished, like a dream dissolving at dawn. And my heart kept tracing its way through lines and colors — not to forget, but to remember. not to escape, but to see with honesty. I do not seek consolation, but attentiveness — to what color can say when language fails. Thank you, for allowing art to speak when everything else was silenced, and for your kindness and sincere presence, which gently lessened our sense of isolation in this distant world. With love, Zainab