“The assassination of a journalist is not only the murder of a voice, but an attempt to annihilate the right of the world to know, to understand, and to bear witness to suffering.”
– Shireen Abu Akleh, Al Jazeera’s Palestinian-American journalist, killed
by Israeli sniper on 11 May 2022
The 25-year-old Palestinian journalist Bisan Owda won on Wednesday an Emmy Award for her AJ+ documentary, It’s Bisan from Gaza, and I’m Still Alive at the two-day 45th Annual News & Documentary Emmys, held by the National Academy of Television Arts & Sciences. With each dispatch, Bisan Owda’s refrain—”It’s Bisan from Gaza, and I’m still alive”—reminds us that survival is a story in itself, and telling it is a revolutionary act for many. Where the line between truth and obliteration blurs with each airstrike, it is the voices such as hers that pierce the global conscience, bearing witness to the horrors inflicted on her homeland.
This reflection on Bisan Owda’s Emmy win delves into why it matters—it’s not just about an award, but about a young journalist standing in the rubble of war, giving voice to the unspeakable and reminding us all of the urgent need to bear witness.
In just eight minutes, Bisan Owda’s film captures the unbearable reality of life in Gaza, where survival is an act of defiance. Filmed outside the Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza City, where Owda herself lived in a tent amidst the chaos of war, the documentary reveals a world unravelling at the seams. One interview significantly cuts deep—a boy, just 11 years old, speaks with the numbness of someone who has witnessed the unthinkable. He tells how Israeli forces bombed his home, killing his parents. His voice, flat and hollow, carries the weight of a childhood shattered, echoing the untold grief of an entire people caught in a nightmare with no end. The film does not sensationalize; it bears witness, holding up a mirror to the devastating human cost of war.
“It’s Bisan from Gaza, and I’m still alive”—words that slice through the numbing silence of war with the force of a scream. In this line, repeated like a mantra, Palestinian journalist Bisan Owda offers not just a broadcast but a lifeline to the world, a defiant proclamation of existence in the face of destruction. It is not just a phrase—it is an urgent cry from a war zone that has become a graveyard of stories untold, lives undocumented, and truths suffocated under the rubble. Owda’s voice, fragile yet fierce, has come to embody the resilience of a people trapped in a cycle of death and survival, caught between the crushing violence of Israeli airstrikes and the global indifference that allows it to continue. https://www.dieangewandte.at/
Earlier in May, for showing bravery and persistence amid imminent danger and carrying a heavy journalistic burden as the entire world looked on, It’s Bisan from Gaza and I’m Still Alive was honoured with a Peabody Award. She also won an Edward R. Murrow award in August. Since October 7, Bisan Owda has amassed millions of followers on social media, capturing the stark reality of Gaza’s devastation. Her footage lays bare the brutal fact: 70% of Gaza’s infrastructure obliterated by Israeli military strikes. Every post is a frontline dispatch, showing the relentless destruction in real-time, exposing the world to the systematic dismantling of a besieged territory.
Bisan Owda’s Emmy win emerged from a haunting reality of war’s darkest moments, where every nominee stood as a witness to human suffering at its most unbearable. CNN’s Clarissa Ward Reports from Rafah Field Hospital in Gaza, PBS News Hour’s Haiti in Crisis, The Guardian’s How I Survive: A Seven-year-old’s Life in Gaza, and The New York Times ‘I Cry Quietly’: A Soldier Describes the Toll of Russia’s War—all told stories steeped in the horrors of conflict. Whether it was the anguish of children in Gaza, the chaos in Haiti, or the silent despair of a soldier, the theme was unflinching: war consumes, devastates, and leaves no life untouched. Each nominee, a fragment of global suffering, made clear that the unspeakable horrors of war were not bound by geography. Together, they offered a gut-wrenching reminder of the shared, brutal cost of humanity’s most violent acts.
There is no neutrality in these words. “I’m still alive” is a challenge—a demand for attention, for accountability. It is a slap in the face to a world content to scroll past headlines to reduce the carnage in Gaza to numbers on a screen. With her phone as her only weapon, Owda documents a war that threatens to consume her, one bomb at a time. Her Emmy-winning series, a collaboration with Al Jazeera’s AJ+, is more than journalism—it is a raw testimony. A firsthand account of the obliteration of Gaza, where every broadcast she survives is an act of defiance against a system that has long sought to erase her voice, her people, her truth.
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Bisan Owda’s journey from a hopeful storyteller to a witness of relentless destruction is a tragedy unfolding in real-time. Once chronicling the vibrant, everyday life of Palestinians, she now records the erasure of that life—buildings collapsing, families torn apart, bodies buried under rubble. Her videos, shot amid the ruins of hospitals and streets littered with the debris of war, have become windows into the unimaginable horror faced by Gaza’s residents. Every frame is a confrontation: this is not just a war; this is the obliteration of a people. And Owda, in her makeshift tent outside a hospital, stands on the edge of that abyss, refusing to look away.
What makes Owda’s work even more urgent is the personal cost she bears. She is not a distant observer, safe behind the lens. She is in the thick of it—her family fleeing, her home bombed, her very existence under constant threat. When she declares, “I’m still alive,” it is not a given—it is a victory, a momentary triumph against the odds. In her broadcasts, we hear the bombs fall close and feel the earth shake beneath her feet. This is the raw, unvarnished reality of war. Owda’s lens captures not just the destruction of buildings but the destruction of hope. And yet, with every report, she reignites that hope, keeping the story of Gaza alive even as the world turns its back.
The urgency of Owda’s work cannot be overstated. In a conflict where truth is contested, her documentation becomes a lifeline to reality. She has become one of the few voices able to break through the fog of war, bringing the stories of Palestinians into homes across the globe. Major networks pick up her broadcasts, but it is not just the content that matters—it’s the fact that she continues to speak. In a world where foreign journalists are barred from Gaza and where local journalists are targeted, silenced, or killed, Owda’s survival is itself a form of resistance.
But Owda’s story is not just one of survival—it is a fight for visibility. In Gaza, where the dead outnumber the living, where journalists are slaughtered alongside civilians, her voice carries the weight of thousands of silenced stories. When war hunts truth, those brave enough to document it become its first prey. The escalating slaughter of journalists in Gaza and the West Bank isn’t just a rising death toll; it’s a calculated assault on those who bear witness. Press freedom groups have drawn a sharp line between survival and storytelling, with the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) revealing that over 75% of all journalists killed in 2023 perished in Gaza. This isn’t collateral damage—it’s a systematic attempt to silence voices that refuse to look away.
In Gaza, truth and survival hang by the same fraying thread. Journalists move through a landscape of ruin, documenting what was never meant to be seen. Under skies darkened by Israeli airstrikes, with famine stalking the displaced millions, they press on without food, safety, or protection—only the stark need to tell the world what they’ve seen. Over 130 cases of targeted killings, injuries, and disappearances remain under investigation. Each silenced journalist takes a piece of the truth with them, leaving us all the poorer for it. “Every journalist lost is a fragment of truth buried,” warns CPJ’s Carlos Martinez de la Serna as history watches with cold, unforgiving eyes.
These deaths are not accidents. CPJ has confirmed five journalists—Issam Abdallah, Hamza Al Dahdouh, Mustafa Thuraya, Ismail Al-Ghoul, and Rami Al Refee—were deliberately targeted and killed by Israeli forces. They continue to investigate the hauntingly similar fates of ten more. Every name in this grim tally represents more than a life cut short; it represents a story the world was meant to hear but now never will.
International humanitarian law (IHL) grants journalists the same protections as civilians. War correspondents have the right to be treated as prisoners of war if captured. And yet, in Gaza, these protections feel like faint whispers drowned out by the roar of missiles. Each fallen journalist marks not only a lost life but a gaping wound in the global quest for truth.
Her line, “It’s Bisan from Gaza, and I’m still alive,” has become a symbol of this resistance. It is a rallying cry for those who refuse to let the truth be buried, for those who understand that journalism in Gaza is not just about telling a story—it is about preserving a people’s right to exist. As press freedom erodes, as journalists become targets in the crossfire, Owda’s voice rises above the destruction, a beacon of defiance in a world that seems determined to forget.
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The push to revoke Bisan Owda’s Emmy nomination wasn’t just a flash of celebrity indignation; it was a serious and coordinated effort by prominent figures in the entertainment industry. Over 150 signatories—including names like Debra Messing, Selma Blair, and media mogul Haim Saban—spearheaded the campaign, accusing Owda of ties to the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP), a designated terrorist group. Organized by the Creative Community for Peace, the letter urged the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences (NATAS) to strip Owda of her nomination. The group’s allegations carried weight, but NATAS CEO Adam Sharp decisively responded, stating that no evidence had been found to support the claims nor any contemporary links between Owda and the PFLP. Sharp’s reply underscored the Emmy’s long-standing commitment to journalistic integrity, even when it involves stories that provoke intense reactions. The controversy underscored how politically charged Owda’s reporting had become, turning what should have been a moment of recognition into a battleground over truth, media, and the right to tell one’s story in the face of powerful opposition.
Bisan Owda reminds me of the 1970s media framing of the Palestinian narrative by the West. In the 1970s, a voice emerged, compelling and unyielding, determined to bring the Palestinian story to the world. This was before the relentless 24-hour news cycle before global media conglomerates turned every tragedy into a fleeting headline. Ghassan Kanafani, visionary and luminary of the Palestinian Liberation Movement, knew that if the Palestinian narrative faded, the world would turn away, preoccupied with its narratives. He understood that storytelling wasn’t just a journalistic duty; it was survival, resistance, and the key to reclaiming an identity erased by war.
History is nothing if not a masterclass in irony. Like Bisan Owda today, Ghassan Kanafani branded a terrorist in his time because nothing complicates the narrative like the shifting line between ‘terrorist’ and ‘freedom fighter.’ Consider this: both Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan’s administrations labelled the African National Congress a terrorist organization during South Africa’s fight against apartheid. And Nelson Mandela, the man who would become the symbol of peace and reconciliation, remained on the US terrorist watch list until 2008. But the irony runs even more profound—Kanafani, a literary voice for the Palestinian cause, likely never imagined that he, too would carry the same label. Yet here we are, with labels changing but the struggles staying the same. Kanafani became the voice of a generation uprooted by the Nakba, the first to give shape to the pain of a people turned into refugees, a people who had lost not only their homes but their very place in the world. His words, stories, and defiance live on as a testament to the power of truth in the face of obliteration.
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The chilling reality is this: with journalists dying at an unprecedented rate, it’s becoming harder to dismiss the mounting evidence that Israel is systematically targeting media workers while dismantling Gaza’s fragile media infrastructure. As of September 24, the numbers alone paint a terrifying picture—116 journalists confirmed dead: 111 Palestinians, two Israelis, and three Lebanese. The injuries are just as brutal—35 wounded, two missing, 54 arrested. But these are just the official figures. Beneath them lies an even darker truth: unrelenting cyberattacks, arrests, and the deliberate targeting of family members.
And yet, despite the devastation, the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) deny deliberate targeting while admitting they cannot guarantee journalists’ safety—a thinly veiled admission of impunity that has long shielded them from accountability. The IDF’s reassurances ring hollow against the grim roll call of slain reporters, meticulously recorded by the CPJ. These journalists walk the same war-torn streets as those they cover, where documenting the horrors of war carries the same risk as living them, erasing the line between observer and target in an era where truth itself is under siege.
In a grim escalation, Israeli forces stormed Al Jazeera’s Ramallah offices mid-broadcast, seizing equipment and silencing the newsroom for 45 days. With foreign journalists barred from Gaza, the few remaining voices—those of local reporters—face growing threats. Under the pretext of national security, Israel’s new laws now grant it the power to silence foreign media, sending a clear message: control the narrative or be silenced.
In Jenin, Palestinian journalist Mujahed al-Saadi experienced this firsthand. At 2:30 a.m., Israeli special forces raided his home, beating him as his family watched in horror. His only crime was documenting the siege of hospitals. Taken to Jalameh prison, al-Saadi’s fate echoes that of many others—journalists who risk everything to reveal a truth the world may never fully see.
The silencing isn’t limited to Palestinian voices. Lebanese journalist Fadi Boudaya, reporting live, was cast off-screen by the roar of an Israeli missile, a chilling reminder that the truth is under attack.
From the depths of war-torn Gaza, where survival and reportage blur, Bisan Owda’s voice has become a beacon amid the chaos. Her dispatches, beginning with the haunting refrain, “It’s Bisan from Gaza, and I’m still alive,” weave survival into poetry, as if each breath she takes defies the violence around her. In bearing witness to the unthinkable, she redefines what it means to live, turning existence itself into an elegy for a wounded homeland.
Narendra Pachkhédé, a member of Reporters Without Borders, is a critic, essayist, and writer who divides his time between Toronto, London, and Geneva.
