The streets of Beit Hanoun no longer echo with childhood laughter. In these Gaza stories, every corner of the city tells of bombardment, every wall carries scars of shattered lives. For journalist Hossam Shabat, Beit Hanoun is both his birthplace and his prison. “I was born here, my father was born here, and our family has never left this land,” he says softly. “But my house was demolished in 2006, again in 2008, again in 2014, then in 2022, and once more in this war.”
These are not abstract numbers in a headline. They are lived moments — the crash of walls collapsing, the choking dust, the terror of waking up to soldiers pointing rifles in a family’s home. “I was barely six years old when soldiers stormed our house and stripped everyone at gunpoint,” Hossam recalls. “That kind of fear doesn’t fade. It stays with you.” Hossam Shabat was born in Beit Hanoun, a northern Gaza town that he calls both his homeland and his prison. “My house was demolished in 2006, again in 2008, in 2014, in 2022, and once more in this war,” he says.
“I was a child, not even six years old, when soldiers stormed our house, woke us at gunpoint, and stripped everyone in front of me. Those moments never leave you.”
Growing up meant watching his home collapse again and again, each war erasing another part of his family’s life. For Hossam, survival wasn’t a choice but the only reality he ever knew.
Gaza Stories – A Life Interrupted
Before October 7, Hossam was just another university student with dreams bigger than the walls of Gaza. He studied Media and Communication, loved photography, and believed in the power of images. “I started at sixteen. Photography was just a hobby then. But in Gaza, hobbies quickly turn into responsibilities.”
The siege changed everything. Borders closed, opportunities shrank, and even medical care for his father became impossible. “My father died of cancer because the crossing was closed. Just ‘the crossing is closed’ — that was the answer.” These aren’t isolated experiences. They are pieces of Gaza stories — threads of loss and survival woven through daily life.
After October 7: Bearing Witness in Darkness
Hossam stayed in northern Gaza when many were forced to flee. With a camera in his hands, he became both a target and a lifeline. “Wearing the press vest was the biggest charge against us,” he says. “It felt like carrying a death sentence. Still, families placed their hope in us. They said, ‘we are being slaughtered, and no one hears us.’ We became their voice.”
He recalls running into bombed schools and hospitals, climbing poles just to catch an internet signal, risking everything to send footage out. Each clip was more than news — it was evidence, a testimony for history. “Every image had a price. We paid with our bodies, with our souls, for these images to reach the world.” One massacre remains burned into his memory: the Al-Tabi’in School. “More than 500 martyrs. I stepped on body parts without realizing. Men holding Qurans, women rushing to dawn prayer with their children — all gone in an instant. It was beyond words.”
Gaza Stories – Carrying the Camera, Carrying the Risk
When October 7 came, Hossam stayed in northern Gaza with nothing but his camera and his press vest. For him, documenting was as essential as breathing.
“Just wearing the press uniform felt like carrying a death sentence. But families told us, ‘We are being slaughtered and no one hears us.’ So we became their voice.”
Each image was more than a report—it was a testimony. He climbed poles to catch an internet signal, filmed massacres in the dark, and risked his life at every step, convinced that the world had to see Gaza’s stories.
Alone, Yet Not Silent
Fifteen months into war, Hossam’s family remains separated by barriers and danger. He lived much of this time without them — hungry, cold, sleeping on school staircases or in the streets. “I ate grass. I ate animal feed. Sometimes I stood in front of the camera, trembling, while my stomach was empty.” Yet even in famine and fear, he kept reporting. “Would we stop now, after surviving bullets over our heads? Of course not. Journalism is my path — it started when I was sixteen, and it hasn’t ended.”
Gaza Stories – Hunger, Silence, and the Weight of Absence
Hossam’s other battle, far from the bombs, was hunger. Cut off from his family and with food nearly impossible to find, he survived for days on little more than scraps.
“I ate grass. I ate animal feed. Sometimes I stood in front of the camera trembling, my stomach empty.”
He kept the camera rolling, kept bearing witness to what many chose to ignore…
What Tomorrow Holds
When asked about the future, Hossam pauses. “We haven’t even buried our martyrs yet. It’s too early to talk about leaving. Migration? No. But maybe, when wounds heal, I will travel to study or work. Not to escape — only to return stronger.”
For him, journalism is not a profession, it is survival through storytelling. His words, his images, and his persistence carry the truth of Gaza stories to a world that often looks away.
“We wanted the world to know who we are, what we endure. The massacres did not begin on October 7, and they did not end with it. But as long as I breathe, I will hold this camera.”
Published By Besa Witness Eye
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