Since October, over 100 Palestinian journalists have been killed by the IDF. They deserve our endurance—and our diligence.

War rages on in the months since Hamas’ assault against Israel and its ongoing retaliatory punishment of the blockaded Gaza Strip. It has been agonizing to witness. As of May, Israeli military actions are estimated to have killed more than 35,000 Palestinians, the majority of them women and children. Almost the entire population of Gaza has been displaced from their homes. A quarter of the population—more than half a million people— are at imminent risk of catastrophic famine, a number projected to surpass one million by July. For the average outside observer, myself fully included, it is impossible to track the dizzying onslaught of information emerging from the warzone without feeling some degree of despair, and even harder to do so with reliable accuracy. Social media is awash with falsehoods, mainstream American media demonstrably biased, and foreign press barred from entering Gaza independently. Further preventing vital access to information is the disproportionate number of Palestinian journalists who have been killed during the conflict so far, particularly compared to other instances of conflict reporting: Since October 7, at least 105 Palestinian journalists and media personnel have been killed by the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF), more than any other country at war.

At the moment, Gaza is the most dangerous place in the world to be a reporter—and also one of the most consequential. As this war continues, it only becomes clearer to me that we must do everything in our power to protect these journalists and their work.

Since the war’s beginning, now the deadliest conflict of the 21st century, I’ve been reflecting on the word “indiscriminate,” on what it highlights and hides. It’s the word most reached for when attempting to describe the scale of civilian destruction in Gaza, a blanket term that fails to capture its intentionality in full. If you are well-versed in international human rights law, you know there are rules that distinguish between legitimate and illegitimate military actions, and these rules dictate what makes a death “indiscriminate.” These rules are governed by principles of proportionality: Warfare cannot result in the loss of civilian life excessive to the marginal military advantage it might achieve. Translated for the layperson, warfare is not open season, and a warzone is not a shooting range. Measures must be taken to mitigate civilian casualties. But even casual observers of this war have largely come to an uncomplicated understanding: It is difficult to describe what is happening in Gaza as anything but indiscriminate. Too many children are being killed. Too many civilians. Too many aid workers. Too many medical staff. Simply put, too many protected classes of noncombatants.

In the case of journalists killed, however, the word “indiscriminate” also obscures something alarming. It’s an axiom of conflict reporting that death is an occupational hazard. But what is happening to journalists in Gaza goes beyond the normal range of risk. The watchdog group Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) has decried the behavior of the IDF, declaring this war “the deadliest conflict for journalists it has recorded since it started collecting data,” with more journalists “killed in the first three months of the war than have ever been killed in a single country over an entire year.” The CPJ has also brought charges against the IDF for the alleged killing of journalists’ families as retribution for critical reporting. And although Israel denies deliberately targeting members of the media—a war crime—they have been sharply criticized by the UN for failing to ensure their protection, and for failing to create real or meaningful safety measures to prevent further deaths.

They’ve also openly attacked the media in other ways, and not just in their attempts to ban it. Journalists are noncombatants protected by international law, and their reporting serves a fundamental public interest. They must be able to report freely and without fear of retaliation, not just for the sake of a free press, but more importantly, to provide Gazans access to life-saving information. This work has been made all the more difficult by Israel’s targeted destruction of the infrastructure necessary to disseminate it. We tend to forget that the internet is rooted in the physical, and that direct attacks on journalists aren’t the only way to measure acts of aggression against the media. Cables, cell towers, internet and telecom networks; all these components are necessary for a story to reach the rest of the world. But many have been destroyed by Israeli airstrikes, causing communications systems to collapse—and what the world cannot see dies in the dark.

With telecommunications compromised, on-the-ground journalists have collectively turned to social media as the primary vehicle for their work. It is, in many ways, their last connection to the outside world, and the outside world’s last connection with Gaza. Using donated eSIMs and shared phone chargers as lifelines, Palestinian journalists have fearlessly persisted in sharing what the Israeli government seemingly does not want us to see. But with such high stakes, I’ve found myself thinking about how we can engage most ethically with their work when our main platform for consuming it—social media—has the power to do as much, if not more, harm as it does good.

Much has been rightly criticized about the pernicious role of social media in disseminating misinformation over the years. Social media is designed to sustain users’ attention in order to maximize advertising revenue, encouraging and rewarding us for sharing whatever posts elicit the most engagement—regardless of accuracy or potential for harm. But over the years, it has also become the internet’s town square; an accessible means of sharing information and finding first person perspectives that fill the gaps mainstream media often leaves behind. It would be reductive to cast social media as simply a peddler of falsehoods, particularly when it comes to what is occurring in Gaza. Social media now plays the role of historical record, collecting and preserving invaluable primary source material from journalists and civilians alike.

As users of these platforms, particularly for Americans, it should be our duty to bear witness responsibly—which, at minimum, means utilizing basic media literacy and being mindful of what we choose to post and share. According to the Pew Research Center, half of U.S. adults get their news from social media at least some of the time; but four in ten of those same adults cite inaccuracy as their biggest concern when doing so. At a time of extreme and unrelenting dehumanization, social media has an outsized influence on the way this conflict has been interpreted abroad, and what we choose to share matters. For the ordinary online user, there is an almost emotional peer-pressure to rapidly engage on social media in the face of tragedy and injustice. Posting, after all, can be a necessary catharsis. We post in spite of and because of our utter helplessness in a world that seems indifferent to large-scale human suffering, railing against the seeming futility of our protests. In this case, Palestinians have also explicitly asked us to do it, to bear witness to their suffering, to not allow them to be forgotten, and to tell their stories of joy and resilience—largely via social media. Journalists, too, have made it clear: Our continual engagement with their work is what motivates them to keep reporting in the face of this incalculable tragedy. But when the abstract act of sharing online has direct consequences on real human lives, it becomes essential that we treat it with care.

To be clear, I’m not advising you to stop posting, or even to post less. On the contrary, please post, please amplify, please share—so long as it’s done with a critical eye to impact. In moments of crisis, it can become easy to slip into what might be called pathos posting, posting that comes from the gut and not the mind. I see it in my followers and I, too, feel its lure. It’s the instant, unthinking tap to repost when confronted with images of the latest unbearable atrocity. It’s the incredibly human impulse to alchemize all our anguish, grief, and rage into action, however small it might be. Little to no caution is exercised in checking for doctored footage, manipulated video, or false contexts. In fact, the emotional weight behind these posts leads to an unwillingness to entertain the possibility of error or your own complicity in the potential spread of misinformation. Cries of caution are met with accusations of disloyalty. This unforgiving attitude siphons nuance and compassion from the public discourse, and further silences attempts at honest reporting. It also puts the people most affected by this conflict at risk of greater harm. Researchers and watchdog groups warn that in this moment of hair-trigger violence, misinformation will result in greater acts of aggression and potential escalations of violence against innocent civilians. We should be doing everything in our power not to contribute to it.

Social media has the potential to bring out the best of our online selves, but so often instead summons our worst, most tribal, unreflective, and hardened. To honor the Palestinian journalists that are risking life and limb to report (only to not even be honored by name), I believe that we can and must push ourselves to engage with their work in ways that are principled, empathetic, and judicious. We achieve this by holding ourselves to account, and asking simple, but difficult, questions: Why are we sharing this? Is it from a reliable source? If the post contains misinformation, could someone believing it result in harm to someone else?

Right now, caution can feel impotent and vastly unequal to the scale of the human tragedy unfolding. It feels right to post totalizing messages of condemnation and rage without a second thought. But this online posturing is myopic and counter-productive: Civilians, including journalists, are not served by misinformation that foments further aggression. I know that it can be tiring to constantly separate fact from fiction, but as the Palestinian-American activist Hala Alyan put it, we owe Gaza endurance. When language and rhetoric pose existential threats to the safety and security of Palestinians and Israelis alike, there is a moral obligation to do better. To not engage indiscriminately.
The duty of the journalist is to clarify the stakes; the duty of the reader is to respect them. But when journalists are literally putting their lives on the line to report from Gaza, we owe them more than our respect. It can be challenging to thread the needle of engaging with emotionally charged content while remaining discerning. It can be hard to treat posts with intelligence and sensitivity; and impossible to sniff out bad faith actors among the good. All these are tasks easier described than accomplished, but this doesn’t mean we should cease our efforts to achieve them. We have to try for the journalists risking their lives to report, and the over 100 journalists who have died doing the same. We owe all of them our endurance.