Witnessing Gaza’s War: A Journalist’s Story of Survival

Thousands of people seek aid delivered across the Israeli Zikim border point in northern Gaza.

The daily struggle to survive the ongoing war in Gaza and protect one’s family – while reporting on the fear and chaos that conflict brings – has become an unrelenting duty for a UN News correspondent in the embattled enclave.

Some 21 months have passed since the 7 October armed attacks on Israel, which sparked the current brutal conflict. Thousands have died, and much of Gaza has been reduced to rubble, but life must go on, according to the correspondent, who remains anonymous for security reasons.

“Those who live here in Gaza don’t need long explanations to understand the meaning of this war. It is enough to listen for a few minutes: planes buzz incessantly overhead, and airstrikes silence everything except fear, which, although invisible, fills every space between our tents and seeps into our bodies.

At night, there’s absolute darkness except for the flashes of bombing. We sleep knowing that waking up is not guaranteed. Every morning in Gaza is a new attempt to live, and every evening a challenge to survive. This is the harsh reality we live in.

I am one of more than two million Palestinians living under the burden of displacement. I document stories of war and despair while experiencing their full bitterness. Since our home was destroyed in November 2023, the tent has become our shelter. My family, once part of my private world, is now part of the stories I share with the world.

Here, life is both simple and tragic. Sleeping on the hard ground, cooking over firewood, and the exhausting pursuit of a morsel of bread are no longer choices but a way of life imposed by the cruelty of war.

In the face of my eldest son, who is not yet 14, I see a reflection of a war that has stolen his childhood and imposed burdens far beyond his years. He has become an expert in finding water distribution routes, haggling for bread, and carrying heavy gallons of water. I feel boundless pride in his courage, yet at the same time a painful sense of powerlessness because I can’t protect him from what’s happening around us.

My wife is trying to create an oasis of hope for our other children. My two eldest daughters continue to learn online when the internet works and read whatever books are available. My youngest daughter draws on worn pieces of cardboard, while my four-year-old son has no memory of anything other than the sound of explosions.

We stand helpless in the face of his innocent questions. There are no schools, no education—only desperate attempts to keep the brightness of childhood alive amid a brutal reality. More than 625,000 children in Gaza have been deprived of education due to destroyed schools and unsafe conditions. The future of an entire generation is at risk.

I work alongside other journalists, moving between hospitals, streets, and shelters. We carry our equipment not only to document events but also to give a voice to those who have been silenced.

We film a child suffering from severe malnutrition, listen to the story of a man who has lost everything, and witness the tears of a woman unable to feed her children. We document the same daily scene: thousands rushing toward a flour truck, running after it, and gathering the last grains of flour from the ground. For them, a loaf of bread is worth more than life itself.

Each time, casualties fall along the convoys’ routes and militarised distribution points. We walk the streets, alert to every sound, as though waiting for the end at every turn. There’s no time left for surprises or sadness—only the constant tension and anxiety that have become part of the survivors’ DNA. This is the reality that cameras don’t capture but that we try to explain to the world.

We document the efforts of the United Nations and its agencies. I see staff sleeping in their cars near the crossings and colleagues crying as they listen to the stories of my fellow Gazans.

There is not enough aid. Crossings open and close abruptly, leaving some areas without supplies for days. Western Gaza City is overcrowded, with tents covering sidewalks and rubble.

The local currency has lost its value. Those with money in bank accounts pay up to 50 per cent in withdrawal fees, only to face empty markets. Whatever is available is sold at exorbitant prices. Vegetables are rare; when found, a kilogramme can cost over $30. Fruit and meat are a distant memory.

The health system has collapsed, with 85 per cent of hospitals no longer functioning and most dialysis and chemotherapy services halted. Medicines for chronic diseases are unavailable. I can’t secure medicine for my parents, who have diabetes and high blood pressure, and there’s no hope of surgery to save my brother’s arm, injured in an airstrike.

Sometimes, I feel caught between two identities: the journalist documenting the suffering and the human living it. But perhaps this is where the strength of our mission lies—to be a voice from the heart of the tragedy, to convey to the world the reality of daily life here.

Every day in Gaza brings new questions:

Will we survive?

Will our children return from searching for water?

Will the war end?

Will the crossings open so aid can be delivered?

From here, we continue, because untold stories die—and every child, woman, and man in Gaza deserves to be heard.

I am a journalist.

I am a father.

I am displaced.

And I am a witness to everything.