ISLAMABAD – Khan Younis awakened under an indistinct dawn, its disarming silence resonating across its streets and rooftops, where Palestinian journalists adjusted cameras in preparation to livestream another day from Gaza's never-ending night. Smoke drifted over broken streets; sunlight caught shards of glass; these exhausted journalists continued performing their last duty: to record, to witness, and to keep memory alive when others chose not to witness.

As Mohammed Salama from Al Jazeera prepared to set up his camera on a rooftop of Nasser Hospital, there came a loud, metallic shriek as the first missile struck, scattering shards of glass and equipment into dust in its wake. As medics and fellow journalists rushed to pull the injured from the debris, a second missile hit the same spot. It was a “double-tap” strike designed to kill rescuers, silence witnesses, and bury the story.

Six journalists were killed within seconds: Mohammed Salama (Al Jazeera), Hussam al Masri (Reuters), Mariam Abu Daqqa (Associated Press), Moaz Abu Taha, Ahmed Abu Aziz, and Hassan Douhan—an academic and correspondent for Al-Hayat al-Jadida. Their cameras lay blood-smeared and broken on the rooftop; at least 20 others died alongside them: patients on stretchers, nurses transporting supplies between wards, paramedics carrying supplies—they were gone not because of where they stood, but because of what they tried to protect.

This attack is not the result of chaos; it is deliberate. When missiles target those holding cameras first, it is never a coincidence. It is intent. Since October 7, 2023, over 270 journalists have been killed in Gaza, making this the bloodiest period for the press in modern history, as recorded by the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ). The attack on Nasser’s rooftop was not an isolated incident. It was part of a systematic campaign to strip Gaza of its memory and bury its witnesses beneath rubble.

The pattern began long before the missiles. Investigations by Bellingcat, The Intercept, and Al Jazeera’s Digital Unit revealed coordinated disinformation campaigns branding Palestinian journalists as “Hamas operatives.” Their livestreams were deleted, their accounts shadowbanned, and their credibility dismantled online. This digital character assassination had a purpose: to make their eventual deaths easier to justify. Once their voices were silenced in algorithms, their bodies became easier targets in reality.

The state amplified this erasure. Daniel Hagari, spokesperson for the Israeli military, publicly labeled Palestinian journalists as Hamas infrastructure, using language designed to resonate with Western counterterrorism rhetoric. Social media platforms, under policies like Meta's Dangerous Organizations and Individuals rule, removed accounts falsely linked with banned groups while also deleting archives, suppressing live footage, and isolating reporters in their last hours—or isolating them altogether.

Hospitals like Nasser, once sanctuaries, have now become theatres of destruction. To bomb where patients lie wounded, to strike where cameras stream truth, and to collapse the last shelters where memory is stored is not just an attack on infrastructure; it is an assault on testimony itself. Without journalists, massacres dissolve into disputed numbers at podiums. Without images, graves become rumors. Without witnesses, Gaza’s suffering risks being erased entirely from history.

When cameras fall silent, justice falters. Each livestream, each photograph, and each recording is evidence, a possible exhibit before the International Criminal Court or International Court of Justice. By erasing Gaza’s witnesses, Israel is not only rewriting the narrative, it is dismantling the very possibility of accountability. Professor Jeffrey Sachs from Columbia University describes this campaign as an assault on truth itself; Francesca Albanese, UN Special Rapporteur, warns there may be "reasonable grounds" to suspect these killings are part of an organized attempt at genocide that seeks to erase both victims and their histories.

The UN has condemned these killings and called for accountability as soon as possible. Stephane Dujarric, spokesperson for UN Secretary-General Antonio Guterres, stressed the urgency of investigating incidents such as the Nasser attack. Dujarric noted that although Guterres lacks authority to launch international inquiries without being granted one by UNSC Resolution 2222, Israel must comply with existing mechanisms in place ensuring journalist protection as civil infrastructure. He warned of "potential horrors" as Israel continues its military assault on Gaza City, stating, "There is no safe place within Gaza."

The sorrow reaches even further back, to 10 August 2025, when a simple white media tent stood outside Al Shifa Hospital in Gaza City. Inside it was 28-year-old Anas al Sharif of Al Jazeera, writing another update for his viewers. When an Israeli missile struck, it killed everyone instantly. Nothing survived in the tent except cameras, equipment, and the stories they had dedicated their lives to sharing.

Before the strike, Anas had recorded what would become his final message for us all to hear: “If these words reach you, know that they have killed me and my voice.” Sadly, his voice remains heard across rooftops and newsrooms across Gaza by those unwilling to allow silence to swallow up truth.
From the rooftop of Nasser Medical Complex to the media tent at Al Shifa, the pattern is unbroken. Journalists are not dying by accident; they are being eliminated because their cameras stand between atrocity and accountability. Destroy the witnesses and history itself becomes negotiable. Bomb the archives and justice becomes optional.

Today, six more names are added to a list already too long. Their cameras will never rise again. Their notebooks remain half-written. Their broadcasts will not reach tomorrow. But their absence tells the story louder than any live feed ever could. Somewhere, beneath the ruins of Al Shifa, perhaps the wind still carries Anas al Sharif’s final words—unbroken, unburied, and unwilling to fade. When the last witnesses are killed, it is not just journalism that dies; it is truth itself, buried alongside them, waiting for the day the world decides that memory is worth defending.