However, dozens of journalists have been killed or wounded by Israeli forces in Lebanon, while the figure is in the hundreds in Gaza, where Israel is waging what Amnesty and many others say is a genocide in retaliation for the Hamas-led attack of October 7, 2023. The IDF also attacked and invaded Lebanon—which it has repeatedly done before—to stop Hezbollah from firing rockets at Israel in solidarity with Gaza.
Remember her not as a victim frozen in a moment of violent horror, but a living breathing voice telling us to wake up and see one another as humans.
Lemon, orange, apple, and avocado trees shaded the courtyard; she had planted these with her father. Cats wove freely between branches and flower pots — she rescues and shelters strays. Her family says that the weaker or sicker a cat is, the more likely it is to become her favorite. “If Amal weren’t a journalist,” a neighbor joked as coffee was poured, “she’d devote her life to saving animals.” Four hours passed in the garden, between the rustle of leaves and the interruptions of breaking news. Amal would stop mid-sentence to check her phone, verify a report from the field, or call someone back, before returning to our conversation: on her childhood under occupation, the early years of Al-Akhbar, and the long trajectory that made her one of the few reporters to document the cyclical war in the South and the lives entangled within.
This interview, recorded amid war and displacement, revisits her two decades of militant journalism, a practice of rooted commitment to the cause of liberation. For Amal, journalism is not a profession but resistance by other means — where reporting is an act of witnessing, and writing becomes a vital line of defense. Her life’s work is a chronicle of her people’s daily struggle against Zionism.
What follows is an account of her experience, layered with reflections on the ethics, labor, and politics of journalism from the perspective of a journalist who stayed on the frontlines closer to home.
The following excerpts were translated from Arabic and edited for clarity.
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Your work is animated by a deeply human, inherently political sensibility. Where does it come from?
My upbringing — everything I saw, read, and lived — shaped how I understand causes and people’s struggles. Since I was 12, I used to read Assafir every day. My father brought it home and it became my window to the world from our quiet village. Through that leftist newspaper, I learned about taxi drivers, farmers, and the impoverished; about people like the liberated and martyred prisoner Samir al-Kantar; about the kidnapped and disappeared. It was through Assafir that I learned about the civil war. The paper also used to publish a supplement called “Kitab fi Jarida” (A Book in a Newspaper), and my father collected every issue for me, along with the series “‘Aalam al-Ma‘rifa” (World of Knowledge) and al-Arabi magazine. Reading them laid the foundation for my political and cultural awareness.
At 10, I wore the hijab out of tradition, though I never really liked it. As a teenager, I always felt the need to do something different; to become a writer like those I used to read. For that, I had to keep reading and learning. I wrote beautifully at school, and my father, who loved poetry, encouraged me. He introduced me to Lebanese poets like Joseph Harb, Mustafa Sbeiti, Mohammad Ali Shamseddine, and Sayyed Mohammad Hasan al-Amine. Amal Dunqul’s poem “La Tusaleh” (Do Not Reconcile) marked me deeply. Poetry softened me; it refined my sense of the world and how I write.
Then in high school, I met communist comrades and felt that the revolutionaries I was reading about in Assafir were suddenly in front of me. My father didn’t allow me to study journalism at the Lebanese University in Beirut, so I enrolled in Arabic Literature in Saida instead. Attendance wasn’t mandatory then, which gave me the freedom to go to Beirut without my family knowing. I joined collectives and took part in demonstrations organized by the Lebanese Communist Party. One day, a photo of me taken during a protest at Riad al-Solh Square appeared in Assafir, back when I still wore the hijab.
I started out at al-Hasna’ magazine, where I wrote several pieces early on. One story I particularly remember was for the Valentine’s Day special issue, about how queer people celebrated love in a conservative society. At the time, I was following writers like Nasri Sayegh and Jihad Bazzi, whose style and sensitivity moved me. Then I joined Shabab Assafir, under Bazzi’s guidance. He left the newspaper in 2006, around the time that Al-Akhbar was founded.
The new paper was looking for young, passionate journalists, so I applied. May Makarem and Joseph Samaha, may they rest in peace, had the idea of creating the daily “Women’s Page.” During the interview, Samaha told me, “You’re the right person for this page; it’s social but serious at the same time.” I joined in April 2006, a few months before the first issue went to print. The plan was to be based in Beirut, covering social issues. My work depended on being among people, and I quickly grew attached to this kind of reporting. We were working on the pilot issues, and I was writing my articles. Every day, I commuted from Baysariyyeh to Beirut and back, taking the van since I didn’t have a car.
