Dear Ismail al-Ghoul: The world has forgotten us. We won’t forget you

Deir el-Balah, Gaza, Palestine – I sat on my knees, heartbroken and trembling.

We were on the cusp of marking 300 days of the Gaza war — a tragic milestone. But tragedy wasn’t nearly done with us.

We had woken up on Wednesday to the news of the assassination of Ismail Haniyeh, the Hamas political boss. People’s faces were marked by sorrow and frustration as I reported on the reactions to his killing from Gaza. As they mourned a prominent leader, Israeli raids continued.

I finished my interviews and went to the Al Jazeera tent at Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital to write. Amid my work, I watched ambulances bring more bodies to the hospital, saw people crying and collapsing in grief.

I stared silently, then remembered my urgent article and resumed writing. When you’re a journalist, reporting on a war and at the same time being a victim of the war, there’s no time to process feelings amid the chaos and madness.

As I pressed “send”, my colleague Hind Khoudary arrived to start her TV shift, frustration etched on her face. It was our usual exchange: about our psychological fatigue and the futility of our situation. We ended the conversation. We each had plenty to do.

I went home to my family and children.

That’s when the messages started coming on WhatsApp: Our colleagues Ismail al-Ghoul, an Al Jazeera journalist, and Rami al-Rifi, his cameraman, had been killed after Israel struck the car they were travelling in with a missile.

We didn’t want to believe it, but then, the confirmation came from colleagues out in the field. And I collapsed on my knees.

It was a fresh slap in the face of all journalists in Gaza. According to our count, 165 journalists have now been killed since the start of the war on October 7. Yet each time, the shock is indescribable.

It’s the same shock that sweeps over us every time we lose a journalist colleague despite our knowledge that everyone is under the guillotine of war and everyone is a target.

And it’s the same shock that reminds us of the bitter truth that no one hears us, no one cares about us.

A woman told me on Wednesday that the world is tired of us and our news. Bored of the war on Gaza, indifferent to our suffering. She was right!

The world is tired of us, oh, my colleague Ismail.

Tired of seeing you on screen for 300 days, broadcasting live news around the clock from northern Gaza.

Tired of you reporting, hungry and unable to find food. You wrote about your hunger, lost your brother and father in the war, were arrested and tortured at al-Shifa Hospital, separated from your displaced wife and children in the south of Gaza.

The world was tired of you until the screen reported on your killing, your head severed from your body in a brutal reflection of the war that you covered.

You were a kind, humble and persistent colleague.

My colleague Marah Al-Wadiya told me how you used to check on her house after every Israeli operation in her area and reassure her it was fine.

Another colleague, Mohammad Al-Zaanin, said you checked in on his family in the north and did your best to provide them shelter after their house was demolished. Mohammad also won’t forget how you brought bread for his mother.

Your death is the latest reminder of how Israel has silenced so many of us, too many to name, but each one is forever lodged in our memories as a hero taken away too soon. All for practicing journalism.

Since when have journalists been targets? Since the world turned its back on Gaza, stripping us of humanity and denying us international and human rights protection in times of war and crises.

But from now on, I won’t ask where the world is. What world? There is no world here. Not even our blown-up heads in press uniforms or the dismembered bodies of our children changes anything.

This false world is not our place, dear Ismail. Perhaps today, for the first time in 300 days, you sleep peacefully and comfortably, understanding the full meaning of “truth”.

The truth that all Gaza residents now know well: It’s only a matter of time. We are all awaiting our turn in this war, and in heaven, we will not forgive anyone.