'Before October 7, I had a beautiful life': Palestinian filmmaker on capturing war in Gaza

Mohammed Abu Safia is a Palestinian journalist and filmmaker who has been covering the conflict in Gaza for ITV News since October 7.

Now one year on, Mohammed reflects on his experience balancing his reporting on the war with looking after his young family.

Translation by Humam Husari

Before October 7, I had a beautiful life.

I worked as a freelance journalist and fixer, and I was also a project coordinator for people with disabilities, specifically amputees in a paracycling team called Sunbirds Gaza.

Saturday was always a special day for me - Friday was family time with the kids, but Saturday was always my day.

But Saturday, October 7 was different. I had planned to distribute wedding invitations for my friend Atiya's upcoming wedding. We were going to visit all our mutual friends and invite them together.

But that morning, nothing went as planned. It was as if the gates of hell had opened on Gaza, a firestorm no one could understand.

My wife and kids were at their grandparents’ house, and I was at my parents’ place. My phone started ringing like crazy - friends, journalists, relatives. I wanted to immediately go to the border and document what was happening with my camera.

I then received a call from my older brother, Jayyab. Due to his experience and work in journalism, he gave me safety instructions, telling me not to go to the border, that my safety was more important than any picture.

He emphasised safety protocols because he knows how impulsive I can be.

Among the calls I received was one from the ITV News team, asking if I was available. My answer was yes, and that’s when it all started.

October 7 was a living hell for all the residents of Gaza.

On a personal level, I experienced an internal conflict between working and protecting my family, staying by their side, and finding a safe place for them.

My mind stopped thinking. I thought I wouldn’t reach a point of fear, but this time was different.

Every minute, I felt fear. Every time I filmed people fleeing, I felt fear. Every explosion, I felt fear.

Being a journalist in a field full of death, destruction, bodies, and the overwhelming noise breaks you inside.

With every picture you take, you imagine your family in that situation, wondering if you would return home to find them dead.

Fear overwhelmed me and controlled my thoughts.

Five months later, in mid-February, I evacuated my family to Egypt, and from there, the situation started to feel more comfortable for me.

However, I still found myself in a war. I was now thinking about how I would survive to see my wife, children, mother, father, and siblings.

The war on Gaza can only be described as hell.

I found out that my wife, Tahrir, was pregnant, it was during the first week of the war, around mid-October.It was a mix of conflicting emotions.

Tahrir was scared because her previous pregnancy with our daughter, Noor, had been very difficult. She had anemia and was extremely exhausted during that time.

So, when she found out she was pregnant again, I became even more frightened because the situation was catastrophic, with bombing everywhere.

By February, I decided they should leave. Some friends helped us get their names on the border crossing list within three days. But I didn't go with them.

When they left, I felt much better. My performance improved, and I was less tense.

Months passed, and I knew I had to be by Tahrir’s side for the birth. I started calling every day to check on them. I made sure that Tahrir would give birth in a good hospital in Egypt.

I was terrified that anything could happen to her, especially since she had been so exhausted when she was in Gaza due to the constant bombings and her fear for our children.

I feared that the baby might have deformities due to the smell of gunpowder, bombings, the fear from the missiles, and the gases we inhaled after a rocket exploded, even if it was nearby and not directly on us.

I’d seen birth defects in babies caused by war, rockets, and that kind of stuff in Gaza, which made me think about many things and fear that my child might be born with deformities.

At the time of birth I was on video with my trusted friend, Ali, to witness all the details that I should have been there for, to witness the birth of my child.

Honestly, the day he was born was very difficult for me because I didn’t see him, didn’t touch him, didn’t hold him, and didn’t take a picture with him, like I had done with Julia, Ahmad, and Noor, his older siblings.

It’s a hard feeling for a father who hasn’t touched his child, and who is four months old by now.

No matter how much I try to describe my feelings, I can’t find the words to express what it’s like for a father who can't see his child grow up in front of him, while living under a barrage of missiles, artillery, and the constant threat of death from disease and war.

Every moment I fear a rocket might fall on me, and I’ll die before seeing my child.

Every time I’m terrified that I’ll die before I can touch or get to know my baby, whom I only know through pictures, seeing him grow but not being able to touch him.

Documenting the war

I feel proud because I’ve been conveying the reality of the Palestinian people to the world through ITV News over the past year.

As a Palestinian from Gaza, the trust ITV News placed in me gave me a heavy responsibility to cover the events of the war in Gaza.

Moving from Beit Hanoun in the north to Rafah in the far south, passing through various locations under the constant threat of airstrikes, rocket fire, and ground invasions - hearing fighter jets overhead and knowing the danger of being targeted was immense.

Throughout the year, the phases of the war evolved.

It started with the intense airstrikes that posed a constant threat of death, where any moment you could become the news rather than reporting it - or worse, your family could be the news.

Professionally, it was challenging to capture the full picture, especially being on my own.

One notable change since the war started is the scale of killing, which sometimes reached over a thousand victims in a day.

The massacres, destruction, and displacement continue, and there is no stability, even in areas deemed "safe zones" by the Israeli army.

For example, I remember evacuating Rafah and travelling to Khan Younis in an area declared "safe".

I set up a tent there, but after 10 days, due to the difficult humanitarian conditions, I had to move again.

A few days later, the place I had stayed was obliterated in an Israeli airstrike, killing more than 50 people.

The explosion was so powerful that many bodies were never found. This created a psychological burden for me - imagining what would have happened if I had still been there, in my tent.

Even after a year, I still struggle to find a safe place, because there is no such thing as a safe place here.

No words can truly describe the hardships. Many of the memories are now nightmares that will haunt me if I survive this war.

There are countless stories I could share, but one that remains with me is that of Mohammed Abu Sahloul, a man I interviewed just minutes before he was shot by the Israeli army. The memory of that moment still haunts me.

It took me three days to find his family after the frequent displacements.

It’s an incident that can only be described as a war crime, one of many untold horrors that haven't been documented due to the dangers of reporting here.

Never-ending challenges

My family were reluctant to leave, unwilling to abandon their home and memories. The house wasn’t just bricks and mortar - it was where my son Ahmed took his first steps, where my daughter Julia had her first bath, and where Noor called me "Baba" for the first time.

It wasn’t easy to leave, knowing I might never return.

I moved six times in the first four months of the war, each move more difficult than the last.

Logistically, it was nearly impossible to find safe routes for movement. Fuel was scarce and expensive, and car parts were even harder to come by.

Moving at night was terrifying, and even coordinating with medics for night-time coverage was risky, as there were no lights or electricity after 6pm.

Supplies were hard to come by - water, food, and basic necessities were in short supply. Even getting a camera or any filming equipment was impossible if my gear was damaged.

One of the other challenges I faced was the internet outages and disruptions to mobile phone service, the local telecommunications network, and even the landline. This was the hardest time for us in terms of communication.

It exposed us to danger and could have killed us at any moment as we searched for an internet source, tried to find solutions.

We used to go to elevated places to catch a signal, just to connect to the internet and let Yara, my colleague in the office, know that I was still alive.

Several times people carrying SIM cards were targeted, so every time I went to connect to the internet, I had to think a hundred times about how to place the phone connected to the internet far from me and use another phone as a hotspot.

I tried my best to stay in touch, send out reports, and reassure my family and my news crew that I was still alive, that I was still working.

I made sure to reach out at every opportunity when I could get a connection. Every time we managed to get a signal, it felt like a revelation.

When people would hear the phone ring, they’d be shocked, asking: “How did you get a signal? How did you get an internet?”

This was one of the hardest moments we lived through, and I pray it never happens again. I just want them to know, at least, whether I’m alive or dead.

The Najjar family comes to mind as an example of the resilience of the people here. After their house was destroyed, they preferred to return to its ruins, despite the dangers, because the alternative - living in disease-ridden refugee camps - was unbearable.

Their daughter, Sarah, who is blind, poses an added challenge during any sudden displacement, as no one knows how she will react or if she will even be able to find her way to safety.

Their story is one of many untold tragedies, and countless others remain undocumented, far worse than what the world has seen.

There are many untold stories, and we strive every day to tell them to the world.

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