I met Mohammed and Anas during our coverage of Israel’s war on Gaza, and we were all in awe of them.
Deir el-Balah, Gaza – The first time I met Mohammed Qreiqeh was at al-Ahli Arab Hospital in Gaza City on January 31 when we had just returned from southern Gaza to the north.
I went to media’s media tent at the hospital, where he was. Photographer Abdel “Abed” Hakim and I introduced ourselves, and we all chatted – about the situation, the war and our displacement to the south.
At the time, Anas al-Sharif was doing a live report.
I felt a warm sense of familiarity. I was finally seeing Anas, whose reports we had followed throughout our displacement. He didn’t look different from how he did on screen, but he had a strong presence in person.
We approached Anas after he finished his report and spoke briefly. He knew Abed well, but it was the first time I met him. He spoke with humility and an easy smile during our short conversation – he had to go report across northern Gaza.
My brief meeting with Anas and Mohammed that day felt like standing before giants, powerful and unshakable. In their presence, I felt like nothing compared to their strength, determination and persistence despite the horrors that had unfolded in the north.
Those of us reporting from the south often marvelled at their strength, and we were always proud of them.
I met Mohammed and Anas several times after that.
On April 13 when al-Ahli Arab Hospital in the centre of Gaza City was struck by two missiles, the meeting was brief but warm – the kind that you could feel how ready they were to help at any moment.
That day, Mohammed advised me to focus on certain points and pointed me towards a place to get important interviews and information. Moments later, he excused himself to go live on air.
This was something Anas and Mohammed shared: tireless work and a willingness to help any journalist on the ground, especially as veterans who knew every inch of northern Gaza.
The last time I saw Anas was last week outside al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza City. I had gone there to film an interview.
We exchanged a quick greeting because, as always, he was busy and getting ready for a live broadcast. I watched him gesture to his cameraman where to set up under the blazing sun.
For a moment, I observed him, his energy and professionalism, despite the wave of Israeli incitement and threats against him. My parting words to him were: “Stay safe,” because we all knew he could be a target at any moment.
When the news came of his assassination on Sunday night, it was a catastrophe, not only for journalists, but for all Palestinians who considered Anas a son, someone who told their stories.
Everyone hoped the news was wrong, but it wasn’t. And it carried another blow: Mohammed, Mohammed Noufal and Ibrahim Zaher had also been targeted.
media Arabic’s entire northern Gaza crew had been wiped out – correspondents, cameramen and equipment – erased.
The charges against them were ready-made, fabricated. But everyone knows Israel fears only one thing: the truth.
It was a moment when I hated everything. I hated journalism – now a lie for a world that does not hear us or see us, a world that waits for our deaths, waits for us to become the news instead of delivering it.
It was a moment heavy with futility, with the shamelessness of the crime and yet heavier with the rage that the crimes go unpunished.
Why wasn’t Anas protected? Why was he left alone, facing death at any moment? Why did we have to watch this as just another news item?
Journalism has become a fear and a curse that shadows us all, every moment.
Anas, Mohammed and their colleagues are no longer here to hold the microphones or cameras, but their voices, courage and relentless pursuit of truth will remain etched in Gaza’s memory.
