The Beiruter honors: They stayed when it was easiest to leave

In every war, there are soldiers who fight, and journalists who make sure the world never forgets why. They pay a price the world too often ignores. In Lebanon, where one battle dies before another is born, it is journalists who walk through ruins unarmed, carrying only cameras, notebooks, and a relentless will to witness. They move where fear reigns, where death whispers in every shadow, driven not merely by duty but by defiance itself. Their courage is not the absence of fear; it is the choice to stare into the abyss, again and again, so that stories may breathe, and truths may live.

But how long must truth demand blood as its toll? How many more Lebanese journalists must fall before the world learns that a vest marked “PRESS” is a shield, not a target? For generations, they have borne the unbearable weight of Lebanon’s history, weaving the tapestry of wars they never asked for, tragedies they could not prevent. And yet, they remain: sentinels between power and the people, guardians of memory, ensuring that even when the world turns away, the truth glows, unwavering, like a lantern in the dark.

Never forget their names:

Issam Abdallah (Reuters), October 13, 2023

Struck by Israeli tank fire near Alma al-Shaab while providing a live video feed.

Farah Omar (Al Mayadeen), November 21, 2023

Killed in an Israeli drone strike in Tayr Harfa, her lens silenced in the chaos.

Rabih Al Maamari (Al Mayadeen), November 21, 2023

Fallen alongside Farah Omar in the same strike, carrying truth to the very end.

Kamel Karaki (Al Manar), September 24, 2024

Fallen during Israeli airstrikes on southern Lebanon, leaving silence where his voice once echoed.

Ghassan Najjar (Al Mayadeen), October 25, 2024

Killed in an Israeli airstrike on Hasbaiyya, a witness who refused to look away.

Mohammad Reda (Al Mayadeen), October 25, 2024

Taken alongside Ghassan Najjar, immortalized in every frame he captured.

Wissam Qassim (Al-Manar TV), October 25, 2024

Killed in the same Hasbaiyya airstrike, defending the story that demanded telling.

Ali Hassan Ashour (Al-Nour Radio), December 3, 2024

Killed while gathering stories the world needed to hear.

Mohammad Shehadeh (Hawana Lebanon), August 8, 2025

Struck down in an Israeli drone strike on the Sidon-Tyre coastal road, his commitment unwavering to the last moment.

Though the enemy believed their bullets and bombs could silence these voices, their colleagues carried their truth, their courage, and their mission forward, ensuring that the stories they risked everything to tell will never be forgotten.

Josianne Hajj Moussa, journalist at ABC News, to The Beiruter:

Since 2007, I have been covering wars and conflicts. Every frontline I’ve crossed has deepened my understanding of how profoundly beautiful yet painfully demanding this profession can be. Soldiers go to war with orders and weapons; we enter the same battlefields armed only with helmets and cameras.

Before every assignment, I pray. I walk out the door knowing I may never walk back in. But that truth doesn’t plant fear, it ignites purpose. As long as I stand by honesty and integrity, I accept whatever comes with the story I’m meant to tell.

The cruelest moments are when we lose our own, colleagues we laughed with hours before, now gone in an instant. Kidnapped. Wounded. Killed.

The pursuit of truth is never gentle; its price is often unbearable. Yet we go on, bound by one unshakable belief: no threat, no power, no bomb can silence our mission. We will continue moving toward the places others flee.

One of the most haunting experiences I faced was during the war, when we were warned of an imminent Israeli strike in the southern suburbs. We were told to evacuate but had to remain on the airport road. suspended between life and death. In that stillness, I crossed myself and whispered: ‘If this is my fate, so be it. My life is no more precious than those already lost.’

What many fail to see is the unseen toll it takes: the trauma, the horrors witnessed, and the emotional dissonance of living two lives at once, one amid war and death, the other, only hours later, at home with our families, pretending that nothing happened.

To all my colleagues who have fallen you remain in our hearts and our pride. Your courage defines the path we continue to walk. And to those of us still here we are not afraid. We will keep going. The voice, the image, and the truth will always be our compass. No power can silence or intimidate us.

Abbas Sabbagh, journalist at Al Mayadeen, to The Beiruter:

This coverage was unlike anything I’ve ever done. I’ve reported the 2006 July War, the 2015 Jabal Mohsen clashes, even the war in Ukraine, but South Lebanon was different. Chaotic, without rules, no defined front. The battle stretched from Naqoura to the Shebaa Farms, deep into Lebanon, even reaching the north. Danger was everywhere.

I’ll never forget October 10, 2023, in Dhayra. An elderly man, nearly ninety, stood in the rubble. I asked him why he stayed. He said, ‘Where would I go?  How can I leave my little calf?’ By the time we returned, nothing of his home remained but rubble.

Then came October 13. I saw Issam Abdallah, alive and reporting, in Maroun al-Ras. Hours later, relentless shelling tore through Dhayra and Alma al-Shaab. Issam was gone. Several colleagues were wounded. The memory of him, standing there just hours before, will haunt me forever.

Every day brought new peril. We stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder with enemy lines, cameras in hand, no cover. Once, a house we were on started cracking under bombardment. All I could think about was keeping the live broadcast on air.

Even when we rested, fear never left, the house we slept in could be the next target. Massive air raids, intense firepower, shockwaves hitting our cameras, it pushed us to the edge.

A journalist’s duty is to deliver the story, not become the story.

“On the night of September 27–28, I reached the site of the Dahieh explosion near Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah’s residence fifteen minutes after it happened. Despite my channel warning us to leave, my cameraman and I stayed. We knew what it meant to bear witness.

This experience was both painful and profound. We lost citizens who helped us navigate the border villages, people we came to know and care about. But the greatest loss was the martyrdom of my colleagues, Rabih Maamari, Farah Omar, Ghassan Najjar, Mohammad Reda, and Wisam Qassim. We shared not just work, but friendship. Now, all that remains is memory.

Nahed Youssef, journalist at Al Arabiya, to The Beiruter:

Covering this war was the hardest test of my life, the most difficult coverage I’ve ever done. Our safety was never guaranteed. We were targets too. All we could do was rely on God.

Moving between border towns was nearly impossible. The Israeli army made sure journalists couldn’t move or film freely. They didn’t want the destruction to be documented. In Rmeish, where I was stationed, everything felt like a trap, every step came with risk.

In November 2023, two missiles hit us. We survived, but I’ll never forget the sound of that strike, the whistle, the explosion, the silence after. Those images of destruction are engraved in my mind forever.

The real struggle wasn’t only physical, it was psychological. During the last two months of the war, we were trapped in Rmeish. The Israelis surrounded the area; we couldn’t move or leave. The pressure was immense. None of us knew what would happen next, if we’d be killed, captured, or somehow make it out alive. The thought of becoming martyrs was always there. That kind of fear lives with you.

The siege made daily life unbearable. There was no food, no water, no communication. Phones were dead, lines were cut. We couldn’t reach our families or our editors. That isolation, being completely cut off, it breaks something inside you.

The emotional toll was heavy. You’re terrified for your family, feeling guilty for putting them through this, imagining what they must feel not knowing if you’re alive. At the same time, you’re trying to keep doing your job with passion and responsibility. It’s a constant mental battle.

Even after the war, the scars remain. I still have nightmares, I dream of airstrikes, of the Israeli army. The sounds come back to me; even loud noises trigger something.

My body still feels the weight of the armor, the pressure of the helmet. Physically and mentally, this war left marks that don’t fade.

But even in the darkest times, God sent me something good. During the war, I met my husband, a fellow journalist. We were trapped together under siege. I believe God placed him in my life in those painful, terrifying days, a small light in all that darkness.

Joyce Akiki, journalist at MTV Lebanon, to The Beiruter:

The moments of shelling remain burned into my memory, especially while moving between villages in the eastern sector, haunted by the constant fear of being targeted. Moving at night was particularly perilous; no one could tell we were journalists. There was simply no safe place. Israel’s strikes were unpredictable; they could hit anywhere. Each journey south tested both body and mind, with no certainty we’d return. Yet risking my life is part of this duty.

Once you choose journalism, danger becomes inseparable from work.

MTV gave us the freedom to report from the front lines, and that, to me, is the essence of journalism: revealing the truth, wherever it unfolds.

Precautions help, but Israel observes no limits, ignoring every so-called rule of engagement. Once, a drone hovered so close above us while we were heading to lunch that we had to dive into our cars. It followed us, a chilling reminder we were being watched.

The loss of colleagues filled me with sorrow and anger, but it only steeled my determination to remain in the South, to continue the work they began and tell the truths they died trying to reveal. On the front lines, we became a family. My colleagues called me Zeinab, and Hussein Azzedine from Iranian TV was nicknamed Antoine. These names were more than playful labels, they reminded us that on the line, all divisions vanish. We were Lebanese first, bound by courage, faith, and an unwavering commitment to bear witness.

Safety training and drills mattered, but no preparation could shield us from the unpredictability of war. The whir of drones overhead, the crack of shells, the sudden chaos of an airstrike, none of it could be controlled. In those moments, protection was fragile, found not in gear but in prayer, solidarity, and the quiet acts of looking out for one another. God became our shield, our witness, and our anchor. Amid destruction and fear, it was unity and faith that carried us forward, the only constants in a world where everything else was uncertain.

Joya Berbery, journalist at BBC, to The Beiruter:

I wasn’t based in the South, but I covered the entire war and went there many times. It was one of the most intense and challenging experiences of my career, alongside the Beirut port explosion. From the very first night, I slept in my clothes, ready to run if bombing started. Every day was unpredictable, and our safety could be compromised with every movement.

The hardest part was saying goodbye to my children before leaving for work, never knowing if I would see them again.

The biggest risk was losing my life, not just for myself, but for the people I love. As a woman journalist, there were also basic but real challenges, like the lack of bathrooms in the field, and the constant weight of flak jackets and helmets. War is ugly in every sense, but covering it in my own country, among my people, made it even harder.

Covering the human side of war is deeply painful, seeing families lose loved ones, homes, or life savings takes a toll on mental health. The losses are huge, but what can’t be replaced hurts the most. We have a duty to convey the voices of the underrepresented while managing our own shock and anxiety, adrenaline constantly high.

Journalists serve as the bridge between people on the ground and audiences at home and abroad. We must be objective, tell the truth, and be the voice of those who have none. Many journalists have died recently, in Gaza or Lebanon, but our duty is clear. My colleagues and I have values that guide our work: Trust guides everything, telling the truth is non-negotiable, and credibility and reputation are everything.

Leila Khalil, journalist at Ghad TV, to The Beiruter:

We went out on October 7, sensing that either Hezbollah or Israel might strike. The settlements on Talet al-Hamams looked wrong, off. Settlers were packing, as if fleeing. The next day, Hezbollah launched its first operation in Shebaa, and Israel responded with overwhelming force. It became immediately clear: this would not be a short conflict. The battle would stretch far beyond the Shebaa Farms.

Moving around was perilous. Israel began targeting Hezbollah members.

We had to navigate carefully, always aware that we were being watched.

Wearing press-marked helmets gave us some protection, but nothing could shield us from the reality that no one was truly safe. When our colleague Issam Abdallah was assassinated, the shock hit us hard, a grim reminder that Israel spares no one to deliver a message.

Within two weeks, it was obvious this war would not end quickly. We worked in shifts, carried heavy equipment, and endured immense psychological pressure. I left my husband and children behind to report from the frontlines. Every story was a fragment of an unending puzzle. Amid the torrent of breaking news, we had to verify every detail, connect the events, and present the full picture, all while respecting those caught in the chaos. Too often, the pieces didn’t align, making the task of conveying the truth an ongoing struggle.

Lara El Hachem, journalist at LBCI, to The Beiruter:

Covering this war was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. The danger was constant. We tried to stay in “safe” areas, but soon realized that nowhere was truly safe, the red zone kept expanding.

Some images never leave you. The scene of our colleagues’ assassination in Hasbaya, the place turned into ruins before my eyes. The massacre in Nabatieh, where families, children, toys scattered in the rubble. Visiting their schools afterward, seeing their empty desks and abandoned backpacks… those are wounds memory won’t heal.

Then came the day residents of Kfarkila returned to find their town unrecognizable. I still remember a woman standing in the wreckage, trying to locate where her house once stood, the entire landscape erased.

I can still see the children waiting outside of targeted buildings, eyes filled with terror, asking if their parents were still alive, or if all that remained were their bodies.

At one point, we were staying at a hotel in Abl al-Saqi when airstrikes hit right beside it. The explosions were so close we thought the building itself would collapse.

Another time in Hasbaya, as MK drones hovered above us, I could almost feel them watching, as if warning me, Leave… haven’t you seen what happened to your colleagues?

When the displaced began returning south, the Israeli army was still positioned near the border. Barbed wire stretched across the fields, and soldiers opened fire on civilians trying to reach their homes. As a journalist, I pushed as close as I could, the world needed to see what was happening.

But this work isn’t only about danger; it’s about people. It’s about speaking to families grieving, searching through ruins, mourning their dead. I have to balance my duty to report with deep respect for their pain, and that balance takes everything out of you.

After more than ten years in the field, I’ve learned that risk is part of the job, but safety always comes first. The story is never worth a life.

Still, this experience changed me. It brought me closer to the people of the South, their traditions, their land. It deepened my knowledge and became a defining chapter in my life as a journalist.

Ricardo Chidiac, journalist at Al Jadeed TV, to The Beiruter:

Sleep became a memory; days and nights blurred under the unrelenting roar of shells and explosions. Chaos was constant, and danger lurked everywhere.

We never imagined Israel would strike high up in Keserwan and Jbeil, yet those areas were hit while we were covering events there. On the ground, the weight of responsibility was crushing. We faced scenes that no words can fully capture. For example, in Ailo, Zgharta, bodies strewn across the streets, limbs torn apart.

I had to push back every instinct, keep my voice steady, describe what I saw without breaking.

Even the language we used had to survive the pressure, remain precise, professional, human.

I didn’t think about my own safety. Reporting was all that mattered. But when journalists began to be targeted directly, a cold realization hit: Why us?

Still, I couldn’t stop. A sense of duty carried us forward. Events were massive, relentless, and with them came an even heavier responsibility. Social media messages poured in; people asking not just for images, but for guidance, for signs of safety. Their trust became my anchor.

We are not martyrs. We do not fight. We cover. That is our mission. We take precautions, but ultimately, we keep going.

On the last night before the ceasefire, I walked the streets of Beirut. Fear and panic hung in the air. Every step carried responsibility, for the families fleeing their homes, and for the viewers waiting for the truth. In those moments, reporting was more than a job; it was a lifeline, a promise, and a duty to bear witness to a world that needed to see, no matter the cost.

Peace returned; they didn’t!

In Lebanon, the war may never end, but neither will those who bear witness. They will keep going, and so must we: never forget, always listen, always see.

And now, as the world exhales after the peace deal between Hamas and Israel, the guns have quieted, the skies seem calmer, and diplomats speak of “hope.” But in that silence, the echoes of what was lost grow louder.

For every camera buried beneath the rubble, every voice cut short mid-sentence, every reporter who never made it back, who will speak their names now that peace has returned?
They were the storytellers of a war that swallowed cities and children alike, and now the story ends without its tellers.

The world celebrates a truce, but who will celebrate the truth they died defending?
Who will bring back Issam, Farah, Rabih, Ghassan, Mohammad, Wissam, Kamel, Ali; the ones who risked everything so the world could see what peace truly costs?

And so, The Beiruter remembers them, not just as names, but as the heartbeat of a world that still needs its witnesses.