"Syrian journalists have sacrificed too much to be forgotten today"

Hussam Hammoud is a Syrian investigative journalist. He regularly works for Arte and Mediapart. This week, he sent us this op-ed, which we are publishing today in free access in French and English, on the fate of Syrian journalists since the fall of Bashar al-Assad.

Since the Syrian revolution began in 2011, 181 Syrian journalists have sacrificed their lives to make sure the world knew the truth. This staggering figure, reported by Reporters Without Borders, doesn’t capture the broken bodies or the shattered minds ofthose who survived. These were ordinary men and women—armed only with cameras, pens, and the courage to stare into the darkness—who bled and suffered to expose thecrimes committed in their homeland. For over a decade, their work bore the weight of the world’s conscience. 

They filmed massacres where their friends and neighbors were among the dead. They recorded thegrief of grieving mothers moments after their children’s lives were stolen. And they keptgoing, pushing their own pain aside because they knew : If they didn’t report and inform,no one else would.

Today, the lenses that showed us Syria’s truth are being silenced. The opening of Syriato foreign media, a moment that should have celebrated collaboration andaccountability, has instead become a painful chapter of erasure for local journalists.They are watching their life’s work being swept aside.

Burden

I spoke with Ali Al-Abdullah, a Syrian journalist and activist who told me what it meant to work under Assad’s regime, risking everything just to carry a camera: "They say a camera can capture a thousand stories. But in Damascus, carrying onemight cost you your life. Checkpoint after checkpoint, you could feel the eyes on you. Even when I knew my pockets were clean, my heart sank each time they demanded my ID and searched for my memory cards." 

Ali grew quiet for a moment before continuing, his voice filled with sadness. "I can’t count how many times my cards were taken. The stories, the footage were gone, just like that. Still, we found ways to tell the world, even if it meant using older cameras or shaky phone footage. Now, I see foreign journalists strolling through Damascus like it’sjust another assignment. They post without fear, without hesitation, amplifying narratives they barely understand. And we, those who carried this burden alone for years, are ignored. It feels like we no longer matter."

"They took everything" 

That feeling of being discarded echoed in my conversation with Nabihah Al-Taha, one of Syria’s most dedicated female journalists. Her frustration came through in every wordshe spoke. "They took everything overnight, every story, every space that belonged to us. Theforeign media have flooded the field, writing about Syria as if we never existed. It’s like our years of sacrifice meant nothing." 

She adds. "I saw CNN report about prison releases, but I could see through the lies instantly. I know the signs of torture, the haunted eyes, the scars that never fade. Those people didn’t havethem. But the foreign journalists filming didn’t know that. They didn’t ask us. They just believed what they saw, and the world believed them too."

Nabihah paused before admitting something that pained her and me even to say and hear: "I gave so much to Syria’s truth, but now, I feel like I don’t belong here anymore. The country I gave everything for doesn’t have a place for me anymore as a journalist." 

I even heard this disillusionment echoed by Audrey MG, a French photojournalist. Audrey has covered the Middle East for years, but what she saw in Syria after December 8th shocked her: "I was photographing Assad’s cells in Saydnaya prison, and there was a Syrian familynext to me. A mother and daughter were clinging to each other, crying, waiting for newsabout their missing son. Their pain was almost unbearable to witness". Then : "I wanted to photograph that moment, not to exploit it, but because grief like that carries the weight of a thousand untold stories. I asked the Syrian colleague who was with meto get their permission first. The daughter refused, and I respected that. Five minutes later, a team of foreign journalists stormed in, snapping their shutters wildly. One ofthem photographed that same young woman." 

These stories are not isolated. They are the painful reality of a country where the heroes who risked everything are now dismissed as relics of the past. But we cannot forget. We must remember the sacrifices of Anas Alkharboutli, who died in Hama with his camera in hand. We must remember Mustafa Al-Sarut, who lost his life documenting the devastation in Aleppo. And yes, we must remember Marie Colvin, the fearless journalist who died in Homs in 2012 so the world could hear the truth. 

Above all, we must remember that the truth of Syria does not belong to the powerful or the loudest voice in the room. It belongs to those who suffered, who lost, and who dared to tell the world when no one else would. It belongs to Syria’s journalists. They’ve sacrificed too much to be forgotten now.