Journalists understand that by becoming one, they would become exposed to tragedies that would unfold, both in their own countries and abroad. However, after 600 days of reporting on Israel’s multi-front war, the global response, and the hostage crisis, I am experiencing a sense of burnout that very few people across the news industry can really relate to.
On October 7, once sirens began, my source groups were blowing up. Photos that no person should ever have to take, nor should a person ever see, were so plentiful as the massacre unfolded that I had to buy more space on my phone. Thankfully, upon joining The Jerusalem Post’s breaking news desk in September 2022, I turned off automatic downloads — otherwise, I would have had to wipe my phone to feel comfortable again. This content continued for at least a week, and I was terrified to check group updates for a long time.
That day, I worked from 7 p.m. until 7 a.m. the next morning — hours I would work four times that week. I went and stayed at my friend’s apartment for a couple of days with my dog, waking up to do early shifts, covering events including the Battle of Sderot, at the police station, which left at least 30 Israeli officers dead.
With teammates, we navigated some of the most devastating news in world history. We reported on the missing, the rising death toll, and the fear of continued infiltration. That week, I became the first person from the Post to speak with a survivor of the Nova Festival massacre — at the time, we still didn’t even know the proper name and just called it the “desert festival.”
I also became the first from our publication to meet with the family of a person believed to be held hostage, Itay Chen, just days before his younger brother was set to become a bar mitzvah.
The cherry on top? The Post’s website was being targeted by cyber attackers, leading us to temporarily post articles via X/Twitter posts.
We were all in uncharted territory, and I wanted to convince myself, “It’s just part of the job!” But truly, it’s not. It is not normal for us or for anyone in any region of the world to go through any of this.
Early that first week, I remember telling my manager, “Sorry, but I don’t know if it's safe for me to commute to Jerusalem tomorrow,” which he understood. I wouldn’t return to my office to see my team, who were also struggling with some of the hardest things we have ever experienced, until January 2024, three months later.
By Wednesday of that first week, I could write, but I could barely formulate a sentence verbally. I had written so many extra stories that I honestly lost count, because our whole staff took an “all hands on deck” approach. I started slipping on deadlines, and luckily, since we all understood that we were severely traumatized, my editors understood and were gracious.
We were collectively struggling as an industry, thinking of what was to come and how we would learn to separate ourselves from it.
I returned to my apartment Tuesday afternoon, and went downstairs to stay with my neighbors who had a spare room so I wouldn’t be home alone. They relayed that the younger sister of one of their best friends had been missing since the 7th, and before nightfall, they had received confirmation that she was murdered by terrorists at the Nova festival.
She was a social worker and had attended the festival professionally to provide support to people who may have taken dangerous substances and needed assistance sobering up. I was sitting in the room as his phone rang, confirming, and watching this young couple embrace each other in sadness.
This was something that I will always remember: being in the room while people in my life received life-altering news, something that way too many people in the days and weeks that followed experienced. There was no performance in their reaction; it was natural and raw, it was true human emotion.
We longed for good news about our hostages
The days, weeks, and months that followed have truly felt like I’ve been sprinting a marathon. I longed for shifts where we’d learn that all of the hostages were rescued or freed, but sadly, that day did not come. I was working on an overnight shift when two hostages, Luis Har and Fernando Marman, were rescued in the middle of the night in Rafah; I was also working when we learned that the father of now-freed hostage Almog Meir Jan, rescued in June in part of Operation Arnon, passed away just a day before his son’s rescue.
I managed the breaking news desk during the bad and the occasional good; both Iran attacks, waves of hostage releases, and countless other events. I know I am not alone in my experience of living through the same things I am reporting on, something that journalists in Israel and Gaza can relate to, though many journalists from the rest of the world can’t exactly understand.
People at the Washington Post, NBC, and countless other outlets back in the US would not understand the agony of checking fallen soldier announcements, praying it wasn’t your friend in reserve duty or their family. They would never even try to understand that journalists here and now would be reporting on near misses, and constantly interviewing people pleading for their loved one’s return from captivity after being stolen from their homes in their pajamas for simply existing.
They would never really understand just how much we stretched ourselves thin, telling stories of atrocities committed against people who are relatives of those closest to us; one example being the murder of Liel and Yanai Hetzroni, twins from Kibbutz Be’eri and the cousins of a close friend. They were burned to death so badly beyond recognition that the Israel Antiquities Authority needed to identify their remains.
Countless people have told me that I “should be proud” of how much experience I’m getting as a de facto war correspondent. I always reply with the same thing: there is not a single reporter here who wants this experience. I would trade the “career progression” any day for this war to have never happened.
As a reporter in Israel’s darkest hour, there is one thing I understand to be true: we’ve become so desensitized to living through and witnessing some of the worst atrocities in world history that we can’t necessarily remove ourselves for long enough to realize that this is far from normal.
I’ve grappled with the thought of leaving a field I worked tirelessly to break into, not because I actually want to work somewhere else, but simply to decompress. However, I don’t think that’s an option; my calling is to share the stories of those who need it most, and I can’t rely on others to do it in my place. Still, I wonder: how can I go on with reporting on this period of time without letting it break me, or the people I work with?
I wish I could close this out with a simple answer, a simple solution to make it easier to do my job. That’s never going to be the case, though. After 600 days of reporting on tragedy, all I can do is my best.
I can do my best to take time off; I can do my best to pursue therapeutic hobbies; I can do my best to ask for help; and I can do my best to set my own boundaries.
Still, that’s not always how the cookie crumbles. I think the best thing that I can do for myself, my mental health, and the people around me is to take those steps back and remind myself: none of this is normal. I can’t go back and unsee Hamas’ livestreams from the massacre and beyond, and I can’t keep trying to correct people who get their news from anti-Israel sources.
What I can do, what all journalists living through this can do, is remind ourselves why we pursued careers as journalists. I pursued this path not to change anyone’s mind, but to lay out the facts in a manner that allows people to hopefully discern right from wrong. I can stay committed to being a neutral reporter in an industry that has an increasingly difficult time avoiding bias.
Most importantly, I can keep reminding myself: none of this is normal, and I am much stronger than I had ever known.