Each time we face the brutality of killing—especially when it claims lives close to our own—journalists, medics, teachers, doctors, passersby—it pierces us in a way that feels almost intimate. It is the resemblance to something deeply familiar, to ourselves, that wounds most. A sudden fear grips every emotion: It could have been me. Not the me that vanishes, but the me left behind—the hollow space that remains, especially when children are involved.
It could be me, the mother who weeps. When they assassinated the young journalist Ismail al-Ghoul, I thought: he was my son’s age. His eyes have never left my mind—eyes that had endured hardship, only to be extinguished. He left behind not only a mother waiting for him, but a wife who recently shared a video from their wedding her voice breaking as she spoke of him_ and a daughter whose face now carries his absence.
Each time we face the brutality of killing—especially when it claims lives close to our own—journalists, medics, teachers, doctors, passersby—it pierces us in a way that feels almost intimate. It is the resemblance to something deeply familiar, to ourselves, that wounds most. A sudden fear grips every emotion: It could have been me. Not the me that vanishes, but the me left behind—the hollow space that remains, especially when children are involved.
It could be me, the mother who weeps. When they assassinated the young journalist Ismail al-Ghoul, I thought: he was my son’s age. His eyes have never left my mind—eyes that had endured hardship, only to be extinguished. He left behind not only a mother waiting for him, but a wife who share recently a video of their wedding say… and a daughter whose face now carries his absence.
The images from those moments—after the wailing, after the screams—remain forever. No sorrow heals the absence of a son from his mother, or a father from his child.
Now, with the assassinations of Anas Sherif, Mohammad Qreqae, and so many other journalists and cameramen we can no longer count, we are reminded that this misery has passed brutality. It is atrocity. It is genocide—a word I once prayed never to witness—unfolding as the world watches, speechless, powerless, the last fragile traces of humanity slipping away.
I keep thinking of Anas—the young man with the face of a mischievous boy. I can see him darting through the backstreets of his refugee camp, impossible to control, his mother and brothers chasing after him. He grew up to become the journalist he dreamed of being, as though the destruction around him carved the road to his calling. He carried the kind of journalism he had imagined: courage, daring, witness, and a fierce loyalty to truth.
And now, we have his own words to the world:
**“Peace be upon you and Allah’s mercy and blessings. Allah knows I gave every effort and all my strength to be a support and a voice for my people, ever since I opened my eyes to life in the alleys of Jabalia refugee camp. My hope was that Allah would extend my life so I could return with my family to our original town of occupied Asqalan. But Allah’s will came first, and His decree is final.
I have lived through pain in all its details, tasted suffering and loss many times, yet I never once hesitated to convey the truth as it is—so that Allah may bear witness against those who stayed silent, those who accepted our killing, whose hearts were unmoved by the scattered remains of our children and women.
I entrust you with Palestine—its people, its children whose lives were crushed before they began. I urge you: let no chain silence you, no border restrain you. Be bridges toward the liberation of this land until the sun of dignity rises over our stolen home.
I entrust you with my daughter Sham, the light of my eyes, whom I never saw grow as I dreamed; my son Salah, whom I wished to guide until he could carry my mission; my mother, whose prayers were my fortress; and my wife, Umm Salah, steadfast as the trunk of an olive tree. Stand by them. Be their support after Allah.
If I die, I die steadfast. I am content with Allah’s decree, certain of meeting Him, and assured that what is with Allah is better and everlasting. O Allah, accept me among the martyrs, forgive my sins, and make my blood a light on the path to freedom. Do not forget Gaza. And do not forget me in your prayers.”**
Since their deaths, social media is filled with photos of their children—fathers clutching them, stealing every possible moment to capture a breath, a smile.
Anas left behind Sham and Salah.
The images from those moments—after the wailing, after the screams—remain forever. No sorrow heals the absence of a son from his mother, or a father from his child.
Now, with the assassinations of Anas Sherif, Mohammad Qreqae, and so many other journalists and cameramen we can no longer count, we are reminded that this misery has passed brutality. It is atrocity. It is genocide—a word I once prayed never to witness—unfolding as the world watches, speechless, powerless, the last fragile traces of humanity slipping away.
I keep thinking of Anas—the young man with the face of a mischievous boy. I can see him darting through the backstreets of his refugee camp, impossible to control, his mother and brothers chasing after him. He grew up to become the journalist he dreamed of being, as though the destruction around him carved the road to his calling. He carried the kind of journalism he had imagined: courage, daring, witness, and a fierce loyalty to truth.
And now, we have his own words to the world:
**“Peace be upon you and Allah’s mercy and blessings. Allah knows I gave every effort and all my strength to be a support and a voice for my people, ever since I opened my eyes to life in the alleys of Jabalia refugee camp. My hope was that Allah would extend my life so I could return with my family to our original town of occupied Asqalan. But Allah’s will came first, and His decree is final.
I have lived through pain in all its details, tasted suffering and loss many times, yet I never once hesitated to convey the truth as it is—so that Allah may bear witness against those who stayed silent, those who accepted our killing, whose hearts were unmoved by the scattered remains of our children and women.
I entrust you with Palestine—its people, its children whose lives were crushed before they began. I urge you: let no chain silence you, no border restrain you. Be bridges toward the liberation of this land until the sun of dignity rises over our stolen home.
I entrust you with my daughter Sham, the light of my eyes, whom I never saw grow as I dreamed; my son Salah, whom I wished to guide until he could carry my mission; my mother, whose prayers were my fortress; and my wife, Umm Salah, steadfast as the trunk of an olive tree. Stand by them. Be their support after Allah.
If I die, I die steadfast. I am content with Allah’s decree, certain of meeting Him, and assured that what is with Allah is better and everlasting. O Allah, accept me among the martyrs, forgive my sins, and make my blood a light on the path to freedom. Do not forget Gaza. And do not forget me in your prayers.”**
Since their deaths, social media is filled with photos of their children—fathers clutching them, stealing every possible moment to capture a breath, a smile.
Anas left behind Sham and Salah.
Mohammad left behind three children; the eldest, Zain, barely six or seven, now speaks to his siblings with a responsibility far too heavy for such a small voice.
These atrocities cut too deep. We will never be the same. This war has stripped away all illusions: occupation has one face, and it is savage. Its goal is not compromise, not coexistence—only our annihilation, for their existence alone.
