Goodbye, Hassan. They knew they would kill you. – Mondowies

I woke up with news that I had hoped that she would never come naively. Yesterday at 7 a.m. my wife woke me to tell me that my colleague and renowned Gazasta journalist Hassan Eslayeh was killed in an Israeli attack on the Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis. She tried to gently break the news; She knew that Hassan and I had worked together during the genocide and that he was one of the people I relied on through certificate and updates during the entire war.

But it was like a ball in my chest. Half a sleeping and my body scored when I digested the news. After working on the weight, I let myself down again and sank heavily into my bed. It was time to mourn another colleague who was accepted by this gruesome genocide.

The Israeli army killed Hassan in his bed in the early morning hours of the place on Monday morning. The simple fact of killing someone in his hospital bed is terrible, but there is a deep, cruel irony in the fact that Israel has killed Hassan in this way. A few weeks ago, he predicted exactly this scenario.

On April 7, Israel bombed a journalist tent outside the Nasser Hospital, burned several living people and killed the Palestinian journalist Ahmad Mansour. Hassan was one of the survivors, although he was seriously injured, with serious burns over his body and the loss of two of his fingers. On the same day, the Israeli army said that Hassan was the goal of the attack and claimed that he was a Hamas fighter who operated “under the guise of a journalist”. It was the same claim that Israel had made without evidence of so many journalists that it had previously killed.

The influence of the first attempt on Hassan's life was immediately felt.

Hassan's voice was absent for more than two weeks when he recovered from his injuries. The updates and certificates around the times that I and so many other journalists received from him stopped, and the true weight of Hassan's voice and the role he played when handing over the news of the Gaza Strip in the world were felt by every journalist in Gaza.

Despite his state of health and the clear threats against him through the Israeli army, when he started stabilizing, Hassan returned from his hospital bed to work and fulfilled his duty to bring the stories of the Gaza Strip into the world. He was not on the field himself, but worked as part of a team of journalists on site to bring us and other testimonies from everyday Gazans affected by genocide. I had a great feeling of strength when he returned to work – the attempt to kill him did not stop him from his duty. He was a real specialist, steadfast in his principles and undertook to say the truth about what is happening in the Gaza.

I had started to hope that Hassan was recovering and was back in the field and did the dangerous and critical work that my colleagues in Gaza do every day.

When I was in my bed and thought of Hassan, murdered in his hospital bed, I thought back of the conversation that I had led with him by phone after this first assassination in April. His fresh injuries made it difficult for him to speak, but what he told me never left me.

“It would not be difficult for the occupation to murder me again, especially with the increasing incitement that I hear against myself,” said Hassan. “You can address me in my room in my room. What can I do?”

They killed him, as he was unarmed in a hospital, and did not threaten anyone. He was in the combustion unit of the hospital and was still recovering from the first asset.

They killed Hassan and left his family, children and his wife behind.

They killed him and left his colleagues who mourn a gap that cannot be filled.

They killed him when he predicted in front of the world and nobody to stop it.

They killed him because journalists in Gaza are the only people in the world and testify to the greatest crime of our time.

And although we have lost an irreplaceable voice of the truth, I think how the sadness overwhelms me, some of the last words that Hassan spoke to me: “When the Israeli army kills me, the photos I have taken and the stories that I have told will live on. My name, my name, my thing and my voice will live on.”