Three years ago, on May 11, 2022, Shireen Abu Akleh was shot dead by an Israeli soldier in the Jenin refugee camp, by a bullet that was neither the first fired at Palestinian journalists, nor the last.
On that terrible day, we were a group of journalists — Shireen, Ali al-Samoudi, Mujahid al-Saadi, and I. We were doing our job, clearly marked as press. Then the shooting started. Ali was shot in the shoulder. Mujahid, in a moment, jumped over a wall and stood above us, shouting down, “Pull her away!” I stayed behind the tree, trying to survive the hail of bullets and to reach Shireen, who had collapsed beside me after being shot.
Since then, the list of journalists killed in Gaza has grown to over 214. Here in the West Bank, my colleagues are thrown in prison. Six months ago, Israeli forces arrested Mujahid, and about a week ago, they also arrested Ali. Both were placed under what is known as administrative detention — arrest without charge or trial. And through it all, the world remains deafeningly quiet.
On the third anniversary of her martyrdom, I write to Shireen — not just as a memory, but as a presence that still lingers in every word spoken for truth, in every word from Gaza, Jenin, and across Palestine. I write to all the martyrs whose voices were silenced too soon, and to those who still stand to speak when the world chooses silence.
A few days ago, an investigative documentary, “Who Killed Shireen?” was released. Led by journalist Dion Nissenbaum, the investigation finally named the soldier responsible: Alon Scagio, from the Israeli army’s elite Duvdevan unit. But here’s the bitter twist: he was already dead, killed by Palestinian resistance fighters in Jenin less than a year ago.
When I saw his picture, I felt something shift inside me, a strange mix of anger, confusion, and maybe even sorrow. I kept asking myself whether this is justice. Would we have ever known his name if he were still alive? If he hadn’t died, would he still be out there, pulling the trigger again and again, killing people in Gaza today? According to the documentary, Scagio had been transferred out of Duvdevan and into another elite unit to escape questioning.
My friend said, “This killer destroyed many lives, shattered the stability of entire families, and ended Shireen’s life.”
So, was his death enough? Why was he never held accountable while he was alive? Did the case die with him?”
They say Jenin avenged Shireen. The killer who took her life on the land of Jenin was killed by resistance fighters when they detonated a planted bomb underneath an Israeli military vehicle in the plain of Marj Ibn Amer.
The report says that he felt no remorse. No guilt. Instead, he became a leader in a sniper unit. Israeli soldiers from the Duvdevan unit continued to use Shireen’s photo as target practice after Scagio had been transferred out of the unit, as “revenge” on Shireen. How many others did Scagio kill after Shireen? One? Two? Ten?
When will justice come for all the martyrs?
Sometimes I feel like I’m starting to lose my grip. Shireen is gone, Mujahid and Ali are detained in Israeli prisons. And here I am, in a city that doesn’t know me, standing alone, tired, watching death, destruction, and the madness of this world that never stops. I ask myself, why does this massacre never stop? Why do we have to witness all this killing? Why does the sound of missiles and bullets never fade?
Shireen, I think of you often — on the day the war on Gaza began, at the moment they blew up the homes in Jenin camp, every time another journalist is killed, and on the day that I saw my colleague Ahmad Mansour burning alive from an Israeli airstrike on the journalists’ tent, burning while writing the news. Every day, I ask myself, what was that news?
Yesterday, I was telling a group of young people how to prepare a news story in wartime. It was a long, detailed workshop, but deep down, I had no real answer. Why should people have to wage wars for their freedom?
In my mind, I always imagine you sitting somewhere up high — like you once sat at Damascus Gate in Jerusalem — surrounded by the children of Gaza, fellow journalists, all the people who loved you, and you asking them, “What’s the news?” They tell you what has happened on the ground, and you get angry. Do you get angry?
Rest in peace, Shireen. Your soul now has the company of all the journalists who gave their lives for the truth.
No. It’s not justice in the ordinary sense of the word. If you believe in any form of divine “justice” – karma, thunderbolts from Zeus, or a jealous god annoyed that Scagio broke one of his commandments – then some sort of “eye for an eye” principle has been delivered.
Sadly, it’s a lottery. Mussolini was captured and shot; Stalin died in his bed. That’s the ICC and ICJ exist – to improve the odds in favour of earthly justice.