As Gaza starves, journalists sell their cameras for food

I write these lines as my strength is fading – not just from the demands of journalism, but from the emptiness in my stomach that now clings to my fragile body.

At times, I sleep having shared a single piece of bread with what remains of my family, surviving hunger together.

Every night feels like the one before: the same bedding, the same groans, the same worry: will we find something to eat tomorrow? Will any of us survive this famine?

In Gaza, hunger is no longer just a humanitarian plea – it has become a harsh reality lived by journalists in every detail.

We, who once reported on the suffering of others, have become part of that suffering ourselves.

We write while suppressing our own pain and hunger, struggling to keep the words from collapsing before they reach the world – to show just how deep our oppression runs.

Before the war, I used to move easily between locations and press offices. Now, I walk for kilometres on foot due to the fuel shortage and lack of transportation.

At times, I sit on the curb, exhausted – lowering my head to catch my breath – then push myself to keep walking, because I know I must finish the report to earn the payment that will buy us food for the next day.

The journalistic work that once provided me with a stable income has come to a halt – institutions were destroyed, offices were evacuated, and infrastructure was targeted.

All that remains is freelance work: chasing a story, a photo, a quote, a report, and sending it to the few outlets that still pay us just enough to stay alive.

The cameras and equipment we once saw as extensions of our very souls have now become burdens we sell to secure food for our parents and children.

One of my fellow journalists offered his entire archive – twenty years’ worth of photos documenting life in Gaza – in exchange for a single bag of flour.

It wasn’t a passing decision, but a moment of heartbreak and survival. How could he hold on to images of the past while his children went to sleep without food?

Another sold his camera. Yet another parted with his microphone, the one he used to move between shelters and bombed-out homes.

Carrying our own fragility

A few days ago, a group of us journalists were working in one of Gaza’s hospitals, trying to secure an internet connection for our coverage.

Suddenly, my colleague – who reports on the famine for an international TV channel – collapsed to the ground. It wasn’t due to shelling or an explosion, but from hunger.

Her frail body couldn’t endure two days without food; her empty stomach could no longer withstand the heat and fear.

We carried her in silence and took her to join the dozens of Gaza residents crowding the hospital, all suffering from severe exhaustion and malnutrition.

As we lifted her, it felt as though we were carrying our own fragility – those of us who report on hunger while living through it ourselves.

In the field, the camera is no longer just a tool for documentation; it has become a means of survival.

Those who carry it are considered fortunate, as they can “trade” it for a sack of flour or a can of milk for their children – if available.

We no longer ask for payment in exchange for a photo, but for food. We no longer negotiate contracts, but for the dignity that remains within us – until further notice.

The black markets have become our only destination. Prices are astronomical. A kilo of flour costs what we used to earn in a full day’s work.

A loaf of bread is nine dollars, and if you want to feed five family members at home, you have to think with an economic mindset rather than a humanitarian one.

We meticulously plan the number of loaves, weigh the meals, ration the bites, and try to convince our children that “this is all that is available.”

Every photo trembles

Every day in Gaza feels like a round in an open death arena.

We are not only facing the Israeli killing machine but also battling hunger – a silent enemy that makes no distinction between child, journalist, or elderly.

We have lost control over our lives, our food, and the details of our daily existence. Some of us have even lost the words.

We no longer write with the same spirit, nor do we capture images with the same eye. Every photo trembles, and every word emerges tired, hungry, and afraid.

At night, we sit together as journalists, reviewing and sharing our stories – not as we used to, to improve our work, but to see who among us is still able to write, and who might collapse tomorrow from sheer exhaustion.

One colleague told me, “We are not just covering the massacres; we are living them.” Another said, “What we send to the world is the echo of our weary bodies.”

Before, producing an article like this would take me just one day. Now, with my focus fading and hunger draining my mind, I struggle to gather my thoughts and words, doing my utmost to write in a way that honors what I want to say.

There is no longer a difference between the journalist documenting the event and the civilian being bombed. Both are hungry, fearful, and hunted, without a home.

What is even more painful is that the world does not see this. It sees the images we send, but not the person who took them. It does not see how they were captured.

Despite all this, we continue. Not because we are strong, but because we have no choice but to carry on.

We are the children of this land, the voice of its people, and the mirrors reflecting both its death and its life.

We carry not only the camera, the microphone, and the pen, but also the weight of the cause, the cries of mothers, the hunger of children, and the dream of survival.