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A Year on, Palestinians Mourn Slain Journalist Shireen Abu Akleh

Pictures and other objects are displayed in memory of slain journalist Shireen Abu Akleh, in the room that used to be her office at the Al Jazeera news channel, in the West Bank city of Ramallah on May 9, 2023. (AFP)
Pictures and other objects are displayed in memory of slain journalist Shireen Abu Akleh, in the room that used to be her office at the Al Jazeera news channel, in the West Bank city of Ramallah on May 9, 2023. (AFP)
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A Year on, Palestinians Mourn Slain Journalist Shireen Abu Akleh

Pictures and other objects are displayed in memory of slain journalist Shireen Abu Akleh, in the room that used to be her office at the Al Jazeera news channel, in the West Bank city of Ramallah on May 9, 2023. (AFP)
Pictures and other objects are displayed in memory of slain journalist Shireen Abu Akleh, in the room that used to be her office at the Al Jazeera news channel, in the West Bank city of Ramallah on May 9, 2023. (AFP)

A year after an Israeli bullet killed Al Jazeera journalist Shireen Abu Akleh, her West Bank office remains almost untouched, but mourners' flowers have piled up in an adjacent room.

The Ramallah street where the news bureau is located has been renamed after her, and a new museum will soon honor her work and that of other reporters covering the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

Fellow journalists say they still have not accepted the loss of Abu Akleh, 51, whose many years of fearless reporting had made her a household name across the Arab world.

Camera operator Majdi Bannoura, who was with her the day she died, said "despite the passing of a year since her death, I still don't believe that she is gone.

"Sometimes I feel that I'm living in a dream."

Walid al-Omari, the Qatari news channel's bureau chief for Jerusalem and Ramallah, said "Shireen's colleagues and I are unable to separate anything from Shireen's influence.

"So, we have kept the office as it was," he added, his voice breaking.

Abu Akleh died on May 11, 2022, while covering an Israeli raid in the Jenin refugee camp in the north of the occupied West Bank.

The army would later admit one of its soldiers likely shot the reporter, who was wearing a helmet and a bulletproof vest marked "Press", having mistaken her for a militant.

Her killing prompted a global storm of outrage and calls for an international investigation.

The anger flared further when Israeli police attacked mourners and pallbearers at her funeral in east Jerusalem.

Large murals have since been painted in honor of the journalist, including on the concrete wall Israel has built as part of its separation barrier with the West Bank.

'Evade responsibility'

Al Jazeera took her case to the International Criminal Court in December.

"We continue to work and to press for the prosecutor and the court to act and take a stand on this case," Omari said.

The Committee to Protect Journalists this week noted the Israeli military had taken no accountability for the killings of at least 20 journalists -- 18 of whom were Palestinian -- in the past two decades.

"The killing of Shireen Abu Akleh and the failure of the military's investigative process to hold anyone accountable is not an isolated case," said CPJ director Robert Mahoney.

He charged that the system "seems fashioned to evade responsibility".

In response to the CPJ report, the Israeli army said it "regrets any harm to civilians during operational activity" and that it considers "the professional work of journalists to be of great importance".

It added that the Israeli army "does not intentionally target noncombatants, and live fire in combat is only used after all other options have been exhausted".

Rodney Dixon, a lawyer appointed by Al Jazeera to take up Abu Akleh's case, has argued there was an attempt by Israel "to completely cover up" the circumstances of her death.

He described Abu Akleh's killing as part of a "systematic and large-scale campaign" against Al Jazeera, noting Israel's bombing of the channel's office in Gaza in 2021.

'A huge void'

In the year since her death, Abu Akleh has been memorialized by Palestinians, and the road where the office is located is now named Shireen Abu Akleh Street.

The cornerstone of a Shireen Abu Akleh Museum for Media will be laid during a ceremony in Ramallah on Thursday, one of a string of commemorative events.

Her brother Anton Abu Akleh said his family were still waiting for justice, speaking at a cultural event on Wednesday in Ramallah.

"During this past year we have gone through several stages, experiences and challenges as we try to obtain Shireen's rights, and achieve justice for her," he told the audience.

Bureau chief Omari said his slain star reporter "was not just a great journalist for Al Jazeera.

"She was a team on her own. It has left a huge void."

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Features

In Assad's Hometown, Few Shared in His Family's Fortune. They Hope they Won't Share in His Downfall

A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)
A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)
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In Assad's Hometown, Few Shared in His Family's Fortune. They Hope they Won't Share in His Downfall

A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)
A defaced portrait of ousted president Bashar al-Assad hangs on the wall of a building in the capital Damascus on December 17, 2024. (Photo by Sameer Al-DOUMY / AFP)

On the walls of the palatial mausoleum built to house the remains of former Syrian President Hafez Assad, vandals have sprayed variations of the phrase, “Damn your soul, Hafez.”
Nearly two weeks after the ouster of his son, Bashar Assad, people streamed in to take photos next to the burned-out hollow where the elder Assad’s grave used to be. It was torched by opposition fighters after a lightning offensive overthrew Assad's government, bringing more than a half-century rule by the Assad dynasty to an end, The Associated Press said.
The mausoleum's sprawling grounds — and the surrounding area, where the ousted president and other relatives had villas — were until recently off limits to residents of Qardaha, the former presidential dynasty's hometown in the mountains overlooking the coastal city of Latakia.
Nearby, Bashar Assad’s house was emptied by looters, who left the water taps running to flood it. At a villa belonging to three of his cousins, a father and his two young sons were removing pipes to sell the scrap metal. A gutted piano was tipped over on the floor.
While the Assads lived in luxury, most Qardaha residents — many, like Assad, members of the Alawite minority sect — survived on manual labor, low-level civil service jobs and farming to eke out a living. Many sent their sons to serve in the army, not out of loyalty to the government but because they had no other option.
“The situation was not what the rest of the Syrian society thought,” said Deeb Dayoub, an Alawite sheikh. “Everyone thought Qardaha was a city built on a marble rock and a square of aquamarine in every house," he said, referring to the trappings of wealth enjoyed by Assad's family.
In the city’s main street, a modest strip of small grocery stores and clothing shops, Ali Youssef, stood next to a coffee cart, gesturing with disdain. “This street is the best market and the best street in Qardaha and it’s full of potholes.”
Families resorted to eating bread dipped in oil and salt because they could not afford meat or vegetables, he said. Youssef said he dodged mandatory military service for two years, but eventually was forced to go.
“Our salary was 300,000 Syrian pounds,” a month, he said — just over $20. “We used to send it to our families to pay the rent or live and eat with it" while working jobs on the side to cover their own expenses.
"Very few people benefited from the former deposed regime,” Youssef said.
So far, residents said, the security forces made up of fighters from Hayat Tahrir al-Sham — the main group in the coalition that unseated Assad, and which is now ruling the country — have been respectful toward them.
“The security situation is fine so far, it’s acceptable, no major issues,” said Mariam al-Ali, who was in the market with her daughter. “There were a few abuses ... but it was fixed.” She did not elaborate, but others said there had been scattered incidents of robberies and looting or threats and insults.
Al-Ali called Assad a “traitor,” but she remained circumspect about her Alawite community's position in the new Syria.
“The most important thing is that there should be no sectarianism, so there will be no more blood spilled,” she said.
Dayoub, the Alawite sheikh, described “a state of anticipation and caution among all citizens in this area, and in general among Alawites,” although he said fears have started to ease.
At the town’s municipal building, dozens of notables sat on bleachers discussing the country' s new reality and what they hoped to convey to the new leadership.
Much was centered around economic woes — retired public servants' salaries had not been paid, the price of fuel had risen, there was no public transportation in the area.
But others had larger concerns.
“We hope that in the next government or the new Syria, we will have rights and duties like any Syrian citizen — we are not asking for any more or less,” said Jaafar Ahmed, a doctoral student and community activist. “We don’t accept the curtailment of our rights because the regime was part of this component.”
Questions also loomed about the fate of the area's sons who had served in Assad's army.
Since the army's collapse in the face of the opposition advance, residents said several thousand young army recruits from Qardaha have gone missing. Some later turned up on lists of former soldiers being held at a detention center in Hama.
“These are young guys who are 22 or 23 and they never took part" in active combat, said Qais Ibrahim, whose nephews were among the missing. Over the past few years, active combat was largely frozen in the country's civil war. “We send our children to the army because we don’t have any other source of income.”
Um Jaafar, who gave only her nickname out of fear of reprisals, said the family had no information about the fate of her two sons, stationed with the army in Raqqa and Deir Ezzour, though one son's name later turned up on the list of those imprisoned in Hama.
“My children got the best grades in school, but I didn’t have the ability to send them to the university,” she said. “They went to the army just for a salary that was barely enough to cover their transportation costs.”
Syria's new authorities have set up “reconciliation centers” around the country where former soldiers can register, hand over their weapons and receive a “reconciliation ID” allowing them to move freely and safely in Syria for three months.
But Ahmed, the doctoral student, said he wants more. As the country attempts to unify and move on after nearly 14 years of civil war, he said, “We want either forgiveness for all or accountability for all.”
Ahmed acknowledged that during the war, “rural Latakia was responsible for some radical groups,” referring to pro-Assad militias accused of widespread abuses against civilians. But, he said, opposition groups also committed abuses.
“We hope that there will be either an open process of reconciliation ... or transitional justice in which all will be held accountable for their mistakes, from all parties," he said.
"We can’t talk about holding accountable one ... group but not another.”