Young Palestinian Whose Coverage of Gaza’s Destruction Went Viral Arrives in Lebanon to Pursue Master’s Degree

Plestia Alaqad, a Palestinian journalist, speaks during an interview with The Associated Press in Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, Sept. 3, 2024. (AP)
Plestia Alaqad, a Palestinian journalist, speaks during an interview with The Associated Press in Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, Sept. 3, 2024. (AP)
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Young Palestinian Whose Coverage of Gaza’s Destruction Went Viral Arrives in Lebanon to Pursue Master’s Degree

Plestia Alaqad, a Palestinian journalist, speaks during an interview with The Associated Press in Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, Sept. 3, 2024. (AP)
Plestia Alaqad, a Palestinian journalist, speaks during an interview with The Associated Press in Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, Sept. 3, 2024. (AP)

A young Palestinian journalist whose coverage of the widespread destruction and humanitarian crisis in the Gaza Strip went viral now watches the war from afar in Lebanon.

Twenty-two-year-old Plestia Alaqad was just over a year out of university with a journalism degree when she found herself in the middle of a war zone. She donned a blue press helmet and vest to interview families in refugee camps and hospitals, posting the videos to Instagram.

"I can’t just look at what’s happening without doing anything," she told The Associated Press in an interview Tuesday in Beirut.

From Gaza City where she lived, Alaqad was among a handful of young journalists and media workers sharing what they saw on social media, with outside journalists unable to access the Palestinian enclave. She now has over 4.5 million followers on Instagram.

Alaqad landed in Lebanon last month to pursue a master’s degree in media studies at the American University of Beirut after being awarded a scholarship named after iconic Palestinian-American journalist Shireen Abu Akleh who was killed in 2022 while reporting on an Israeli military raid in the occupied West Bank.

Today she spends her days on the tranquil tree-lined AUB campus or in the cafes of Beirut's Hamra Street, but her mind remains in Gaza.

"You’re a journalist and a Palestinian human witnessing it," Alaqad told the AP, sitting in the patio of one of those cafes, wearing a black and white traditional keffiyeh scarf. Balancing those two roles "was the difficult part," she said.

She had already lived through three wars in Gaza by the time she graduated university, but the war that began on Oct. 7 was on a different scale.

The Israeli aerial bombardment and ground offensive triggered by the deadly Hamas-led attack on southern Israel - which killed some 1,200 people and took another 250 hostage - has killed over 40,000 Palestinians in Gaza, according to the Health Ministry. The war has caused vast destruction across the territory, with entire neighborhoods wiped out and critical infrastructure heavily damaged.

"It used to break my heart seeing kids standing in lines for hours just to buy bread or to fill tanks with water," Alaqad said. "Instead of those kids being at a school, they’re standing in line to do these chores."

By covering the impact of the humanitarian crisis as a result of Israel's blockade of Gaza and aid agencies' struggles to reach the civilian population, she hoped that it would counter what she saw as the "dehumanization" of Palestinians in the wider media and show that they are more than "just numbers."

"I used to connect with the people, and get to know them on a deeper level so people can remember their names, their smiles, and who they are," Alaqad said.

Reporting while tending to her own and her family’s well-being and safety was often complicated.

Electricity and telecom cuts at times made charging equipment and uploading material a challenge. Sometimes she would have to put work on hold to secure basic items, including food.

"I would think ‘what a downgrade’ — why am I spending three hours of my day just to search for eggs?" she said.

During almost two months covering the war, Alaqad said she was displaced several times, moving between houses and hospital in Gaza City before heading south to stay with relatives in Khan Younis.

One night, her mother told her that her uncle in Australia had secured them temporary visas to evacuate, and that the family was put on a list to leave through the Rafah border crossing with Egypt in several hours.

Alaqad said she was reluctant to leave, but felt that continuing to cover the war would be an eventual death sentence, and so she left for Australia in late November.

The United Nations and human rights organizations have been alarmed by the large number of journalists killed in Gaza since Oct. 7. Committee to Protect Journalists says it has confirmed that least 111 Palestinian journalists and media workers in Gaza have been killed.

In March, three dozen leaders at news organizations around the world, including the AP, signed a letter expressing solidarity with journalists in the tiny enclave, calling for their safety and freedom to report there.

"You either get forcefully displaced out of your country, or eventually you’d get targeted and killed," Alaqad said. "I felt at one point that we will all stay in Gaza and just get killed and the story will never go out to the world."

Since she left, more of Gaza has been levelled to the ground in Israeli military operations. The vast majority of Gaza's population of 2.3 million people have been displaced and no longer have access to the Rafah crossing. Large-scale polio vaccinations began Sunday in response to an outbreak of the rare disease as humanitarian organizations warn that lack of aid and worsening living conditions pose major public health risks.

Efforts for a ceasefire and the release of Israeli hostages mediated by Qatar, Egypt, and the United States remain unsuccessful.

Alaqad said witnessing the destruction of schools and universities in Gaza has given even more importance to her in furthering her education. She hopes to return to report on Gaza's reconstruction once a ceasefire agreement is reached and on the Palestinians' ongoing advocacy for self-determination.

"You can leave Gaza, but I don’t think Gaza can ever leave you," she said.



With Israeli Tanks on the Ground, Lebanese Unable to Bury Dead

Mustafa Ibrahim al-Sayyed, who was displaced from Beit Lif in southern Lebanon saying there was tank fire around when he tried to venture into his home last week after the truce between Israel and Hezbollah, stands next to belongings in Tyre, southern Lebanon November 30, 2024. REUTERS/Aziz Taher
Mustafa Ibrahim al-Sayyed, who was displaced from Beit Lif in southern Lebanon saying there was tank fire around when he tried to venture into his home last week after the truce between Israel and Hezbollah, stands next to belongings in Tyre, southern Lebanon November 30, 2024. REUTERS/Aziz Taher
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With Israeli Tanks on the Ground, Lebanese Unable to Bury Dead

Mustafa Ibrahim al-Sayyed, who was displaced from Beit Lif in southern Lebanon saying there was tank fire around when he tried to venture into his home last week after the truce between Israel and Hezbollah, stands next to belongings in Tyre, southern Lebanon November 30, 2024. REUTERS/Aziz Taher
Mustafa Ibrahim al-Sayyed, who was displaced from Beit Lif in southern Lebanon saying there was tank fire around when he tried to venture into his home last week after the truce between Israel and Hezbollah, stands next to belongings in Tyre, southern Lebanon November 30, 2024. REUTERS/Aziz Taher

When a ceasefire between Israel and Hezbollah came into effect last week, Lebanese hotelier Abbas al-Tannoukhi leapt at the chance to bury a dead relative in their southern hometown of Khiyam, battered for weeks by intense clashes.

Tannoukhi's cousin had been killed in one of the final Israeli airstrikes on Beirut's suburbs before Wednesday's ceasefire, which stipulated an end to fighting so residents on both sides of the border could return home.

But with Israeli troops still deployed in southern Lebanon, Tannoukhi coordinated his movements with Lebanon's army. Last Friday, he and his relatives pulled into the family graveyard in Khiyam, six km (four miles) from the border, with an ambulance carrying his cousin's body.

"We just needed 30 minutes (to bury her)," Tannoukhi, 54, said. "But we were surprised when Israeli tanks encircled us - and that's when the gunfire started."

Tannoukhi fled with his relatives on foot through the brush, wounding his hand as he scrambled between rocks and olive groves to reach safety at a checkpoint operated by Lebanese troops.

Soon afterwards, they tried to reach the graveyard again but said they were fired on a second time. Shaky footage filmed by Tannoukhi features sprays of gunfire.

"We couldn't bury her. We had to leave her body there in the ambulance. But we will try again," he told Reuters.

The ordeal highlights the bitterness and confusion for residents of southern Lebanon who have been unable to return home because Israeli troops are still present on Lebanese territory.

Israel's military has issued orders to residents of 60 southern Lebanese towns not to return home, saying they are prohibited from accessing their hometowns until further notice.

The US-brokered ceasefire deal grants both Lebanon and Israel the right to self-defense, but does not include provisions on a buffer zone or restrictions for residents.

"Why did we go back? Because there's a ceasefire," Tannoukhi said. "It's a halt to hostilities. And it is a natural right for a son of the south to go to his house."

The Israeli military did not immediately respond to requests for comment.

PEACE OF MIND

The ceasefire brought an end to over a year of hostilities between Israel and Lebanese armed group Hezbollah, which began firing rockets at Israeli military targets in 2023 in support of its Palestinian ally Hamas in Gaza.

Israel went on the offensive in September, bombing swathes of Lebanon's south, east and the southern suburbs of Beirut. More than 1.2 million people fled their homes.

After the 60-day ceasefire came into effect last Wednesday, residents of Beirut's suburbs returned home to vast destruction, and some Lebanese from the south were able to return to homes further away from the border.

But both sides began accusing each other of breaking the deal, with Israel saying suspicious movements in villages along the south constituted violations and Lebanon's army pointing to Israeli tank fire and airstrikes as breaches.

Mustafa Ibrahim al-Sayyed, a father of 12, was hoping to return home to Beit Lif, about two km from the border.

But nearly a week into the ceasefire, he is still living at a displacement shelter near Tyre, a coastal city about 25 km from the border.

He tried to venture home alone last week, but as soon as he arrived, there was tank fire around the town and he received a warning on his phone that his town was in the Israeli military's "no-go" zone.

Sayyed is still stuck in displacement and wants to get home.

"I hope we go back to our town so we can get peace of mind," he said.