Another name has been added to the grim roll call of journalists killed in conflict zones. This time, it is an Al Jazeera correspondent, struck down by an Israeli air strike in Gaza. The details are still emerging, but the pattern is sickeningly familiar: a reporter doing their job, bearing witness, becomes a casualty of war.
For those of us who live by the written word, the death of a journalist is a particularly visceral blow. It is a reminder that the pursuit of truth is not a safe profession. It is a reminder that the story has a cost, and that cost is often paid in blood.
Britain has called for immediate de-escalation. The Foreign Office has issued the usual carefully worded statement, urging restraint and expressing deep concern. But on the streets of Gaza, and in the newsrooms of Doha, the words ring hollow. What does de-escalation mean to a family burying a son? What does restraint look like from the wreckage of a press vehicle?
I think of the other journalists killed in this conflict. The list is long and it is not partisan. They come from different networks, different nations, different perspectives. But they all share one thing: a commitment to telling the stories that others would rather ignore. They are the eyes and ears of a world that is often blind and deaf.
There is a social psychology at play here. When a journalist is killed, the message is clear: silence the messenger, and you silence the message. But that is a dangerous calculation. In the age of social media, information flows like water around a stone. The story will be told, one way or another. The question is, at what cost?
For the people of Gaza, this is not a geopolitical puzzle. It is a daily reality. They live under the shadow of drone strikes and the threat of invasion. They have learned to identify the sound of a drone by its tone, to know when a strike is coming. They have learned to mourn quickly and move on. There is a dark poetry to their resilience, a survival instinct that defies comprehension.
And for the British government, the call for de-escalation is a familiar refrain. It is the safe option, the diplomatic route. But it is also a form of avoidance. It avoids the uncomfortable question of responsibility. It avoids the moral calculus of arms sales and political alliances. It avoids the human cost.
I remember a conversation with a veteran war correspondent who said to me, 'The first casualty of war is the truth.' He was quoting Aeschylus, but he could have been describing the modern news cycle. The truth is not just twisted; it is targeted. Journalists are not just observers; they are targets.
So what do we do? We write. We remember. We tell the story of the journalist who died doing what we do. We hope that the next time, the world will listen. But we know, deep down, that the cycle will continue. As long as there is conflict, there will be casualties. And as long as there are journalists, there will be those who seek to silence them.
But we are not silenced. We write on. We remember the name, the face, the story. We hope that in some small way, our words can make a difference. That is the only weapon we have. And we use it, even when it feels futile.
