“Where Should I Be, Shama‘ or Khiam?”: Amal Khalil’s Two Decades of Militant Journalism

You were born and raised in south Lebanon during the occupation. How do you remember those years of your life?

I was born in 1984, in Baysariyyeh, shortly before the liberation of our town. From the roof of our home, [as a child] I used to see the occupied villages far in the distance, across the mountain facing Iqlim al-Tuffah — that area [the occupied border strip] was still under occupation then. I grew up hearing stories of neighbors who carried out operations against the Zionist enemy on the coastal road. I remember the story about a young man who had just gotten married. The Israelis kidnapped and imprisoned him in the infamous Ansar detention camp. They later blew up his house because he had joined the resistance through the Amal Movement. 

I grew up hearing stories about neighbors who carried out operations against the Zionist enemy on the coastal road. I still remember the shadows of the fighters — how they moved in the dark.

Sometimes I saw clashes right there, in front of me, like when we visited my aunt in Kfar Rumman. Young fighters would launch an operation against the Israeli military outpost in Dabsha, and we would watch everything unfold before us: the resistance firing, the Israelis responding, shells exploding, bullets flying. You felt like you were standing in the middle of a battlefield, witnessing war up close. I still remember the shadows of the fighters — how they moved in the dark. We never saw the Israelis; they were always hiding in their stronghold, firing from within. These scenes stayed with me. For my generation, people now in their forties and fifties, we didn’t live in the time of the Palestinian Resistance or the [Lebanese] National Resistance Front; we grew up with Hezbollah’s Islamic Resistance. The videos on al-Manar, anthems, and atmosphere of collective struggle shaped our sense of belonging and rebellion. Even though no one in my family was a fighter or a former prisoner, what I saw and heard as a child marked me deeply. It shaped how I see the world.

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.

The videos on al-Manar, anthems, and atmosphere of collective struggle shaped our sense of belonging and rebellion. What I saw and heard as a child marked me deeply. It shaped how I see the world.

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.

Could you walk us through your beginnings in journalism and how your work at Al-Akhbar evolved over two decades?

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.

Then came the July 2006 war — a turning point in my professional life. The newspaper was originally meant to come out on July 15 in a very different format, with supplements dedicated to the environment, feminism, archaeology, and more. But on July 12, when the resistance captured the two Israeli soldiers, everything changed. I was in the office when Samaha came in and said, “Listen everyone — this looks like it’s going to last a while, and everyone should decide now what they’re going to do.” Without even thinking, I packed my things and said, “I’m going South!”

I took the van and reached home around 4:30 p.m. Within an hour, the Israelis started bombing roads and bridges. I clearly remember when they hit the Zahrani bridge. I stayed with my family in the village, which had remained untouched since it was liberated in 1985. Some friends and I volunteered with a grassroots initiative called Samidoun, helping displaced families arriving from villages further south. The group remained active in Beirut and Saida. At the beginning of the war, we could still reach Sour — until all the roads were bombed: the highway, the old road, and the coastal road. Sour and the surrounding area became isolated, so we focused our efforts on Saida. 

Through all of this, the journalist in me stayed awake. I met families from border villages like Srifa, Houla, and Shaqra, and began writing their stories. I sent them to Al-Akhbar, and they began publishing the stories in their trial issues. When the ceasefire took effect on August 14, 2006, at 8 a.m., I accompanied the returnees to their villages. The print edition of the newspaper launched that day, and my first article appeared the next morning, on August 15, titled “Oh Eight in the Morning, Take Me Back to My Land.” I joined the returnees at dawn — they were waiting for the hour to return home.

I wanted to do something different, not the usual “so-and-so received so-and-so” kind of news that had no place in Al-Akhbar.

In early September, Samaha told me, “We need a reporter in Sour. You’ve gained experience and we want you there.” But I didn’t know the city: I rarely visited it with my family, didn’t know its neighborhoods, and still didn’t have a car. It took time to build connections and learn the place. Everything felt new. Regional reporters often didn’t have a background in journalism, and I wanted to do something different, not the usual “so-and-so received so-and-so” kind of news that had no place in Al-Akhbar. We tried to practice serious journalism by covering people’s concerns and everyday struggles. 

When I began working in the stronghold of the Amal Movement, without any ties to local power networks, I was young, idealistic, eager to change the world, driven by a culture of rights and public interest. Going after corruption cases and social issues in the area, sparing no one — not even my family — led to confrontations. My “poisoned pen” earned me renown, but not without cost. I was threatened, assaulted, and intimidated. The pressure to break me was relentless, but I didn’t yield. My articles upset many, who would call the paper to complain or demand the right of reply. I was subjected to all kinds of silencing tactics, to no avail. What helped me endure was that the organization itself didn’t impose limits. I remember Samaha once told us, “The only red line is the arsenal of the resistance.” I recall when Sayyed Hassan [Nasrallah] reproached the paper for publishing the WikiLeaks documents about Nabih Berri around 2011, even though he had asked us not to, but Al-Akhbar didn’t back down. That gave me the freedom to openly engage with and confront local authorities in the Sour district.

You have worked autonomously in the South, often with little resources and oversight. Can you describe your trajectory, field methods, and the topics you choose to cover, as you shoulder the risks and responsibilities of frontline journalism?

When I settled in Sour, I practiced self-management without any organizational support. No journalist from the main office ever accompanied me, unlike other regional correspondents. My work spoke for itself. I made sure that the newspaper never identified any gaps in my work. During the parliamentary elections, for instance, my pieces combined political analysis with field coverage among the people. This made me feel like Sour was my little kingdom. The newspaper didn’t assign me stories or files to work on. [Al-Akhar Editor in Chief] Ibrahim al-Amin once told me, “Your work imposed itself. You’re a journalist by instinct and we trust you — you’re our eyes and ears in Sour.” But that also became a burden, because I understood that if I wanted to stand out, I had to work even harder, and the salary was very modest — about $400.

Over time, my work in Sour encouraged the paper to let me cover Bint Jbeil and Nabatieh too. By 2011, I was covering all of South Lebanon. There were other correspondents, but some had been laid off. Assaf Abou Rahhal, who was in charge of Hasbaya and Marjeyoun, was also martyred in 2010, when the Israeli occupation army came to uproot the Odaisseh tree from Lebanese soil. Israel claimed the land within its territory, in occupied Palestine, so the Lebanese army bravely confronted the enemy and managed to kill a senior Israeli officer. The Israeli forces fired back, launching two shells that killed Assaf, near the tree. Assaf Abou Rahhal had come from Kfayr in the Hasbaya district to cover the incident. He was an older man. The next day, photographer Hassan Bahsoun and I went there to write a tribute piece at the paper’s request. We stood by the tree when a Lebanese soldier approached us and asked if we were from Al-Akhbar. Then he handed us a blood-stained ID card — it was all that remained of Assaf. I will never forget that day.

Besides the South, I covered different stories across the country, about Dar al-Fatwa, the attacks in Arsal, the Future Movement, in Tripoli, Anfeh, and Batroun. But the South was always within; I never left it. The 2006 war shaped me as a journalist, and the occupation and UNIFIL became my beat. Over time, I became a reference on UNIFIL, the Palestinian camps, the resistance, Hezbollah, and the Lebanese army. Later, when I got a car, I gained more freedom to move around and could reach all parts of the South. It helped that for Al-Akhbar, my cause was their cause: communism and resistance. Every year, we covered May Day, May 25, and the July War. Because I had close ties with militants in the [Lebanese] National Resistance Front, I tried to write stories that revived this glorious history whenever I had the chance.

Assaf Abou Rahhal, in charge of covering Hasbaya and Marjeyoun, was martyred in 2010 when the Israeli forces launched two shells near the Odaisseh tree, killing him. A blood-stained ID card was all that remained of Assaf.

On a personal level, resistance means everything to me. I love the resistance, whether its ideology is communist or Islamist. Through my work, I have tried to be in solidarity with these people — the people of the land. I have tried to document recurring Israeli aggressions, beyond the wars and bombardments of 2006 and 2023. The times Zionists tried to grab land here and there, I was always on the lookout. People may not have known about this because I didn’t appear on television. But people are now beginning to recognize me and my work because I appear more. In this war, I have relied on the connections that I spent 17 years building in the South. I know someone in every village; they became my sources, my keys. The newspaper never told me whether to go or not to go, and I didn’t think twice. It felt obvious that I had to cover the front. When it came to breaking news, I could fact-check information through my network on the ground. Even if I was in Shebaa, I could follow what was happening in Naqoura. 

What has also helped me to deliver solid coverage is the camera. In the past, my name would only ring a bell for the Israelis, UNIFIL, and those directly involved in shaping the game. The public only came to know me through the videos I started posting. I’ve been making videos since 2020, in fact — interviewing people on Liberation Day, for example, or on the anniversary of the 2006 victory — but I never appeared in those videos. For me, it was simple: I’m here to tell the stories of the people, not to become the story myself. In time, that choice proved to be the right one. In this war, I filmed everything on my phone and asked others to help me with editing. Eventually, I learned how to edit the videos myself.

I’ve been making videos since 2020, in fact, but I never appeared in those videos. For me, it was simple: I’m here to tell the stories of the people, not to become the story myself.

That said, I don’t consider myself a “war correspondent,” because I never received formal training in war coverage; if I were to cover a front other than this one, I might overlook many details. My perfectionism and rigor prevent me from accepting such a title. I see myself as a field correspondent — nothing more. I also can’t advise anyone to do the things I do; it is a responsibility that I cannot bear. Anyone who chooses to follow proper security measures has every right to do so. Many colleagues went to the South and wrote their stories after the ceasefire, whereas during the war, only a few would go without official permission from their media organizations.

Your approach is unique in that it combines covering the resistance with reporting on the lived realities of ordinary people in the South. Can you talk about this?

Although my institution supports the resistance, I strive to distinguish my reporting from that of colleagues in allied media outlets, especially on internal affairs. Their outlets often adopt an inflammatory style when covering events in the South, focusing mainly on producing a counter-propaganda that is, in many cases, shallow and trivial. They exaggerate the achievements and victories of the resistance to downplay Israel’s actions, and it backfires in the end. If you review my articles, you’ll see that I have always tried to alert readers to the developments on the field in our confrontation with Israel. Early in the war, for example, on December 18, 2023, I wrote about the French-Israeli proposal to establish a buffer zone in South Lebanon. 

We have a responsibility, a duty, to convey reality and help build its narrative — a responsibility that was neglected over the last 17 years, leading to shock and disappointment among supporters of the resistance. My goal was never to discourage people. To the contrary, in my stories around this ongoing aggression, I always highlight the steadfastness of ordinary people in their border villages, like the farmers who continued tending their land while the Israeli settlements across from them in northern Palestine were empty. I debunk the enemy’s narrative of targeting only military sites by showing evidence of them bombings homes, farms, and killing children. After the ceasefire, I also started documenting how the destruction that followed was many times greater than what had occurred during the war itself. I compared both phases, the war and the ceasefire as of February 18, 2025, when the ceasefire became official. The most important thing for me to document in my writing and through the camera is that the Israeli occupation exceeds the five points. In reality, the entire strip along the border has become occupied, two to three kilometers deep into Lebanese territory. The area is effectively a buffer zone, since people can no longer return to their homes there. In other words, it is, by all practical measures, an occupied area.

The responsibility to convey reality and help build its narrative was neglected over the last 17 years, leading to shock and disappointment among supporters of the resistance.

This is the approach I adopt in my coverage, which is not something I studied because I never specialized in journalism. Our greatest mentors didn’t study journalism either, because journalism, at its core, depends on instinct. Knowledge and culture can be acquired over time, but journalistic sense cannot be taught. Anyone who decides to practice journalism must ask herself the existential question: why did I enter this field in the first place?

Reporting on the war in the South requires tremendous fortitude and decisiveness. How do you maintain your focus and composure and decide in real time what sensitive information to publish or withhold?

Fear is always there, which is natural. In the past, I used to feel confident that the Israelis were deterred. But after the ceasefire, that deterrence vanished, and everything changed. I have photos of my encounters with the enemy at different stages, from 2006 until today: in Labbouneh, right above Naqoura, with no barriers between us; after the Odaisseh-Kfarkila cypress tree incident in 2010 and the construction of the Kfarkila wall in 2012 by the Israeli enemy; and after the martyrdom of young men during the Return Marches on Liberation Day in 2010. The closest they ever got to us [journalists] was in Khiam on November 27, 2024, where we found ourselves face to face with a hostile bulldozer, its soldiers firing volleys to drive us back as we drew near — I couldn’t help but laugh at them — and again on February 18, 2025 in Markaba; that time, the fear was real because the situation had shifted completely.

When the resistance launched rockets toward Palestine, I never filmed their launch sites. I acted as if I hadn’t seen or heard anything.
I often practice self-censorship. I’ve told myself many times, especially since September 23, 2024, that certain stories don’t need to be published. Personally, I prefer not to report on Israeli evacuation threats because doing so only spreads fear among people, which is exactly what Israel wants. Other times, I do the opposite. When the Israelis entered Shama‘, I received a video from someone in the Italian unit of UNIFIL. He asked me not to reveal his identity. I published it that Friday with Al-Akhbar’s logo, and all hell broke loose. The enemy managed to trace the source of the video and shelled the courtyard of the Italian unit in an attempt to intimidate us.

I’ve had people on the ground helping me with information, from ambulance teams to the army and UNIFIL. From the very start of the aggression, we took our precautions. When the resistance launched rockets toward Palestine, I never filmed their launch sites. I acted as if I hadn’t seen or heard anything, waiting for the resistance to release an official statement, especially since multiple factions were involved in the confrontation.

Resistance has been a recurring theme throughout this conversation. Could you reflect on what it means to you one last time?

I always say in my articles, interviews, and conversations that resistance is our fate. As long as we live next to the Israeli entity, this struggle will continue. Resistance is an instinctive act among southerners against the aggressor.

I try to recall the history of this struggle since the 1930s, when Maarouf Saad went to fight the Zionists in Tulkarem. The people of Kfarshouba have 16 martyrs from the Yahya family who fought alongside the resistance in Palestine against Zionist gangs. A more recent and vivid memory I have is of the martyr Abdullah Fakih from Rab el-Thalathin. He was 24. I interviewed him in June 2024 when he was preparing to take his official exams in Tebnine. When he passed the exam, he contacted me on Instagram to tell me the news. He began looking for an internship in Beirut and eventually found one at al-Rassoul al-A‘zam Hospital. Later, he decided to return to his village. He wasn’t affiliated with any organized group, but he was among the young men defending the land during the ground incursion. There are many like him, who are not necessarily members of Hezbollah nor ideologically committed to it. Abdullah’s grandfather had been killed by Zionist gangs in 1948 while defending his village of Hounine. His grandson was martyred in 2024.

Resistance is our fate. As long as we live next to the Israeli entity, this struggle will continue.
I always say that it’s the resistance that established deterrence from 2006 to 2023. For the first time in Lebanon’s history, and the Middle East more broadly, the South became the safest region. That’s something UNIFIL commanders themselves acknowledged — though, of course, it wasn’t thanks to them but to the resistance. This reality translated into people investing millions to rebuild their homes and villas along the border. That reality, however, has since changed. The resistance remains our ceiling, our shelter, our security and reassurance — and our experience proves it.

For the first time in our history, the area of Zahrani was bombed [in 2024]. It was an uncanny experience. Even when initial Israeli strikes fell nearby, it never occurred to us to flee. But when the situation worsened — on Monday, September 23 — my aunt’s house was bombed, but they survived. Half an hour later, my other cousin’s house was hit, and his wife and child were killed. The massacre was unprecedented in our village, and our family was in shock. You never imagine yourself in such a position, because in Baysariyyeh, we were always the ones hosting the displaced, not becoming them ourselves. Even during the jarring aggression of 1993 — the so-called “seven-day assault” — we were not impacted like we were in 1996, or even 2006. The Zahrani area was always a place of refuge for families displaced from the border villages, as early as 1947-48. Baysariyyeh hosted many families from the occupied strip, some displaced in 1973, others in 1977–78. We even have a neighborhood called Yarin al-Jadida (“The New Yarin”), named after the border village of Yarin, whose people were displaced on July 2, 1977, after the massacre there. Many of them are still here today.

 The resistance remains our ceiling, our shelter, our security and reassurance — and our experience proves it.
The next day at noon, a friend called and said, “Bring your family and come.” My brother and I drove the family in two cars, made sure they were safe, then returned to the village. We decided not to leave. Then, we were only forced to abandon our house because the enemy directly threatened me — we thought that they might follow through on their threat. So, we started sleeping at my sister’s in the center of the village and spent the days at my aunt’s during the mourning period. There was no need to follow the news: it was all over our heads. From the rooftop, you could see our village, Iqlim al-Tuffah, Nabatieh, and Ansar. It was the first time that I experienced sleeping on the floor in a house overcrowded with displaced families, wearing borrowed clothes, having left home with only what I wore. I was living the same experience as the people I used to interview. My movement became limited to Saida and its surroundings, as it was too difficult to go further. When the ceasefire was announced, my family returned home, but it never crossed my mind to go back with them. Like before, I started my car and drove further south toward Khiam. 

The night before, while my family was still thinking about returning, I was already planning my coverage, mapping out which border areas I could reach. The morning after the ceasefire, I asked myself: Where should I be, Shama‘ or Khiam?

—This interview was conducted with the assistance of Layla Yammine.