Ignored by police, attacked by mobs: Arab journalists in Israel work in constant fear

Jewish youth attack photographer Saif Kwasmi during the 2024 Flag March in Jerusalem. Haaretz journalist Nir Hasson tried to defend Kawasmi, and was attacked as well

Sheren Falah Saab writes in Haaretz on 25 June 2025:

The war in Iran, which has upended media priorities worldwide, is also presenting Arab journalists in Israel with a new and nearly impossible reality. On one hand, like all news professionals, they are expected to cover the unfolding war in real time – from missile sirens in Israel to American strikes on nuclear facilities in Iran. On the other hand, the internal reality within Arab society continues to simmer. Murders, shootings, and the ongoing cycles of violence in Arab towns and cities are being pushed to the margins by the current state of emergency.

For example, just two days ago in the northern city of Shfaram, 25-year-old Udai Ibn Rajis was shot dead. But the news was buried beneath headlines about the war with Iran, which dominated public attention.

Some Arab journalists have had to conform to this new agenda, while others insist on emphasizing that even in the shadow of regional war, the deadly routine within Arab society must not become invisible. They continue to report and expose – even at the cost of receiving direct threats to their lives.

These threats come from multiple directions: from elements within Israeli society, who physically assault them or deny access to coverage areas, and from within Arab society itself, where violent actors attempt to silence reports about crime or corruption in their own communities.

Since the first Israeli strike on Iran, the already dangerous reality has intensified – but in many ways, it is far from new.  Makan 33 journalist Ahmad Abu Swees reporting on the lack of shelters in unrecognized Bedouin villages in the Negev in 2023. In 2022, his car was was shot at. “I used to just worry. Now I’m truly afraid,” he says.

When the Danger Reaches Home

In December 2022, Ahmad Abu Swees, a journalist covering southern Israel and Arab society for Makan 33 (Israel’s Arabic-language public broadcaster), finished his workday and returned home to Rahat. In the parking lot, he found his car window shattered.

“I saw a bullet and the broken glass and realized someone had shot at the car,” he told Haaretz. “In that moment, a thousand thoughts ran through my head. I asked myself what I had done – had I published something that angered someone? When danger reaches your home, you realize that you have to be careful with every word.”

The shooting was widely covered in the media. The Union of Journalists in Israel stated at the time: “Whether this was a targeted shooting due to his work or a stray bullet – this is a reality that cannot be accepted.”  Since then, Abu Swees has lived with constant fear. “I used to just worry. Now I’m truly afraid. Someone could come on a motorcycle, shoot, and that’s it. If you’re not killed, you could be left paralyzed.”

He is not alone. Many Arab journalists face similar exposure and threats. Even though they are not working in formal conflict zones, the feeling is that of a battlefield – where police are absent, violence is escalating, and journalists become direct targets.

“We’ve Become a Statistic”

In an article published this month in Telem magazine titled “Nothing to See Here: Jews Ignore Them, the Community Threatens Them – This Isn’t the Time to Be an Arab Journalist,” journalist Kholod Massalha describes the existential reality of Arab journalists in Israel during wartime and amid an unrelenting wave of internal violence.

Massalha, director of I’lam – Arab Center for Media Freedom, Development, and Research, and editor-in-chief of the “Bokra” website, has long warned of challenges that are rarely given public attention – though they shape the daily reality of Arab journalists.

“Palestinian society in Israel is in a deep social crisis,” she writes. “It is marked by rising violence and crime, corruption in local municipalities, fear of the police, lack of legal protection, and deep distrust in state institutions. For insisting on reporting these failures, many journalists experience isolation within their own communities.”

“When they report on murder, assault, or domestic violence, they are marked. When they try to expose criminals, business tycoons, or religious leaders – they receive direct threats. Sometimes, those threats turn into physical violence.”

Her words resonate deeply with Abu Swees. Surviving the shooting doesn’t mean he feels safe. Every story is a balancing act. “About a month ago, I published a report about businesses led by women in unrecognized Bedouin villages in the Negev,” he says. “It was a very positive piece, meant to encourage women’s participation in the labor market. One of the interviewees, a 30-year-old woman, agreed to be named.

“Then, in the middle of the night, people came to my house and insisted I take down the article – saying it violated the family’s code of modesty. They stayed until six in the morning and refused to leave until I took it down.”

The challenge, he says, is made worse by a fundamental misunderstanding of what journalism is. “The price we pay is sometimes very heavy.”

“If something happens – protect my family”
The story of Hassan Shaalan, Ynet’s Arab affairs correspondent, illustrates just how dangerous the job is – and how powerless the authorities seem in protecting reporters.

In June 2021, an explosive device was planted at his home in Baqa al-Gharbiya. It detonated, causing significant damage, but miraculously no injuries. This came just weeks after gunfire had been directed at both his house and car.

Shaalan told Haaretz at the time that he had no idea who might want to harm him or his family. “There’s no explanation for it, I don’t know what to do or whom to turn to,” he said. “The police are investigating this incident like the last one, and I haven’t heard of any arrests or anything. I’m afraid for my life, my family members’ lives. The first time it was gunfire, now a bomb near the house, I don’t know where to run to.”

Two years later, in June 2023, he published a chilling op-ed: “If something happens to me – protect my family,” he wrote. ” After the gunfire and threats I received for reporting on crime in Arab society, someone texted me this week: ‘You’re despicable. We’ll take you down.’ I didn’t even bother reporting it to the police this time.”

No Law, No Justice

Other Arab journalists interviewed by Haaretz prior to the war with Iran – all of whom requested to remain anonymous – described a similar reality. Covering crime and violence is not only life-threatening; it also exacts a severe psychological toll and reshapes professional priorities.

“When I wake up and there’s a double murder in Jaljulia, or six murders in four days – on top of war and the ongoing persecution of Arabs – I can’t focus on anything else,” Massalha says. “In Nazareth, for example, there are serious environmental issues, but they don’t get enough coverage because there’s no time, and no one to cooperate except for environmental organizations.”

Compounding the problem, local newsrooms are financially fragile, which makes it difficult to conduct in-depth investigative reporting. Massalha notes that many journalists are forced to impose self-censorship. “I’m afraid not only for myself, but also for the colleagues who work with me in the field, my family, my friends. I don’t hesitate to say this – as long as I lack institutional backing, I censor myself because I can’t bear the thought of people close to me coming to harm.”

Just like other unresolved cases in Arab society, she said, assaults on journalists also go unpunished. “We’re just another statistic. No one is protecting us. Our media outlets, which struggle to survive day to day, can’t afford to provide us with full-time security.”

The issue of self-censorship comes up repeatedly in conversations with Arab journalists. Most of them establish strict boundaries in their reporting, avoiding the names of criminal organizations, criticism of municipal leaders, or any discussion of corruption.  “Some criminal organizations have representatives in local councils, which makes everything even more complicated,” a journalist from a local media outlet told Haaretz. “They will come to your home and threaten you. Nothing deters them – not the police, not the state. They’ll find a way to silence, harm or intimidate, either directly or indirectly.”

In April 2022, 31-year-old Mustafa Sarsour, a journalist from Kafr Qasem who worked for local news websites and operated a Facebook page for reporting, was shot dead during a live broadcast. A month later, police arrested two suspects from the city, but they were released shortly afterward. To this day, the case remains unsolved.

“As long as you’re reporting on home demolitions, there’s no problem,” Ahmad Abu Swees explains. “But when you cover theft or violence – the journalist becomes an enemy of the crime organizations and gets into serious trouble. You receive threats, bullets – everything. There’s no law here. No justice. That’s why I prefer to report on other topics, and far from home. Every word could cost you your life. And people are watching what we publish.”

From 6 to 96 Cases of Harassment
Since October 7, 2023, and throughout the war in Gaza, feelings of fear and insecurity have intensified among Arab-Israeli journalists. Massalha explores this at length in her article, pointing out that while an average of five to six cases of violations against Arab journalists’ rights were recorded annually in the past, there have been at least 96 incidents since the war began.

According to data from the I’lam Media Center, this represents a dramatic and sustained shrinking of the operational space for Arab journalists in Israel. This erosion is evident through arrests, the revocation of press credentials, digital and physical surveillance, blocked access to news events, systematic exclusion and incitement on social media.

For example, during the first week of the war, a journalist from Nazareth, Ahmad Darawsheh, was reporting from a street in Ashdod for Al-Arabi, a Qatari network that broadcasts throughout the Middle East. A security guard, identified as such by an inscription on his hat, entered the frame shouting at and threatening the reporter while he was on the air. “What are you reporting? What are you reporting?” he demanded.

Darawsheh replied that he was in the middle of a broadcast. “Who cares if you’re broadcasting?” the security man retorted, and moved closer in a threatening manner. “I hope you’re saying good things, get it? Because if you people don’t report the truth, you’re in for trouble.”

The security man “had a large number of two-way radios, he was armed, and so was everyone who was with him in the car,” Darawsheh later told Haaretz. “I knew it wasn’t the police, but a different security body. I was afraid he would hurt me.” Darawsheh then left Ashdod.

“The video clip was posted on social media, so I became a well-known face,” he said. “Regular citizens threaten me while I’m broadcasting, so now I no longer dare to report alone, only when there are other teams of reporters next to me, especially if they’re speaking Hebrew or English, because no security people will ever bother them during a broadcast. Fortunately, the photographer who accompanies me is an English speaker, so I don’t talk much in Arabic and attract less attention.”

At last year’s Flag March on Jerusalem Day, Jewish youths attacked Palestinian photographer Saif Kwasmi from East Jerusalem. Haaretz journalist Nir Hasson tried to defend Kawasmi – and was attacked as well. Massalha wrote: “Palestinian journalists report that they experience harassment or exclusion when covering security-related events. In contrast, when a Jewish journalist stands beside them – the treatment changes. Their mere presence acts as a kind of shield.”

Abu Swees shares a similar experience: “There was a day when I was reporting in the Old City of Jerusalem, and the police, without any clear reason, wouldn’t let me in. I asked a Jewish colleague – a newsroom coordinator – to join me. Only then did they let us pass. Since then, to avoid such situations, I place a Hebrew-branded microphone cube on my mic. If they see an Arabic cube, or know you’re from an Arab-language outlet, you have a problem.”

When it comes to covering Gaza, Massalha points to another layer of professional harm. “Arab-Israeli journalists in Israel don’t publish much of what’s widely reported around the world, due to personal and military censorship. The entire profession has been affected. In some ways, we’ve become like PR people – less critical, more restrained. Yes, we’ve failed – but it’s not just us. Jewish-Israeli journalists have also failed in covering the war.”

She clarifies that there are, however, journalists who have had the courage “to take it all the way.”

And Now, Iran

Since the outbreak of war between Israel and Iran, Arab journalists in Israel are facing new dilemmas and challenges. Against the backdrop of escalating violence within Arab society, they must make daily decisions about what takes precedence.

On June 17, a father and son were shot to death at a business in Nazareth, and another person was moderately wounded. Despite the severity of the attack, the incident received virtually no coverage in Arab media – because on that same day, funerals were held for four women killed by an Iranian missile strike in Tamra, an Arab city in the Lower Galilee.

This painful reality, says journalist Ahmad Abu Swees, offers no easy solution. “Of course the women who were killed were the top priority – even though people from our own community were also murdered that day. It simply won’t make the top of the news agenda. It hurts, but that’s the reality. There’s no way around it.”

Massalha adds that “coverage of intra-community violence hasn’t disappeared, but it has been pushed to the margins. Still, some journalists insist on continuing to address the issue – mainly local reporters who stress that even when rockets are falling, crime doesn’t stop.”

While most Israeli media outlets frame the war through a security-focused lens, Arab journalists raise a different set of questions: Why are there hardly any shelters in Arab towns? Why aren’t Home Front Command alerts and instructions translated into Arabic in real time? What’s happening with schoolchildren in the unrecognized villages of the Negev Desert?

“The Arab journalist ends up filling the gaps for the Arab public,” Massalha explains. “They become the point of contact, the translator, the mediator in conversations around personal and civilian safety. Journalists may be stepping beyond the traditional boundaries of neutrality – but not because they’re activists. They do it because the situation demands it.”

According to Massalha, the war with Iran has only intensified the persecution, marginalization, and incitement directed at Arab journalists who are Israeli citizens. “In the first week of fighting alone, at least nine serious incidents involving journalists were documented – including detentions, physical assaults, interrogations, equipment confiscation, and overt racist incitement.”

She adds that “in some cases, journalists were denied access to missile strike sites on the grounds that they lacked credentials – even though they presented valid Government Press Office cards or identification from their media organizations.”

In a move that escalated tensions further, Communications Minister Shlomo Karhi and National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir announced that all foreign journalists must obtain prior written approval from the military censor before broadcasting during wartime – despite the fact that the censor has no legal authority to enforce such a rule. These statements have led to increased friction between the police and journalists – particularly Arab journalists.

Over the weekend, News 13 reporter Ali Mograbi experienced several disruptions while broadcasting from the site of a drone strike that damaged a home in Beit She’an. During his live broadcast, a young man wearing a shirt that read “The Temple Mount is Ours” repeatedly blocked the camera, circled Mograbi, and interrupted the broadcast by shouting, “You’re all born liars!”

Mograbi told Haaretz then: “The incitement from Ben-Gvir toward the Arab minority, along with his and Karhi’s statements about censoring foreign media, is already provoking violence. People see that I’m an Arab broadcasting on Israeli media, and apparently that bothers them. They think they can be ‘our judges’ in the media.”

Arab journalists were also targeted at multiple locations last week. They were cursed at, spit at, objects were thrown at them, and they were accused of being “spies” and “terrorists.” In some cases, they had to be escorted out of the area by police – not for their protection, but to prevent further escalation.

From all this, it’s clear that the treatment of Arab journalists is no longer a series of isolated incidents – it reflects a broader process of delegitimization.

“Today,” says Massalha, “the threat is not just to press freedom, but to the very possibility of conducting independent Arab journalism in Israel. The Arab journalist has become a suspect figure, and their presence in the field triggers a chain reaction. This is not just random friction with the police or the public – it’s a systemic pattern that creates an almost impossible environment for journalistic work.”

This article is reproduced in its entirety