I wrote this before I knew what it meant

I'm about to share words I wrote almost ten years ago. Back then, I was a young journalist in Israel and the West Bank. I wrote constantly (in my journal): documenting what I saw, what I felt.

Today, I was organizing my archives and I found those texts. They shook me.
So I decided to share them with youn spontaneously. Raw. Unedited (translated to english).

Since then, I've walked a different path: through intelligence, field operations, and the invisible architecture of power.

Reading my young self today, I realize something clear: the roots of my current work were already there.

The liminal discomfort.
The war of perception.
The choreography of chaos.
The quiet responsibility of OBSERVING.

What I now call the Grey Zone, I was already inside it. Here is one of the texts:

It’s a delicate position. An uncomfortable in-between.

I’m never truly on one side or the other. I remain torn.

Wearing the "PRESS" badge places me in a very specific position: right at the heart of this destructive conflict.

That label gives me access to everyone. It makes me almost untouchable. Almost.
It’s convenient, I’m one of the few who can gather testimonies from both sides.

They, like me, are stuck here.

Israelis versus Palestinians… and never far behind, the cameras.

But both sides also use my status to tell me what they want me to hear, they know what my job is.

So how do I distinguish truth from lies?
By observing. By building my own opinion.

I’ve come to realize that the security forces don’t like the media. And who can blame them?

At first glance: rigidity, disdain, suspicion.
But just like them, I’m here doing my job.
Some of them I even sympathize with.
Others - consumed by fear of the media - turn aggressive.

We're not allowed to stay in the shade. We have to move.
It’s over 35°C.
Why?
"Because I said so" he replies.

On the Palestinian side, many are eager to tell their stories.
They know exactly what my job is, they want the world to hear them.
While all the journalists gather in the shade under a parasol or an olive tree, a group of Palestinian kids, no older than 8, bring us water, biscuits, small supplies.

Then one of them, a defiant little one, starts shouting over and over again:

'Allahu Akbar, Al Aqsa, we will protect you with blood and force.'

Little man! Do you even grasp the weight of your words?
Do you know what Al Aqsa is?
Why are you repeating what the elders chant, without pause?

In the end, haven't I become an actor in this conflict myself?

I see it. Sometimes there are more cameras than people. Journalists jump at the slightest image of a soldier arresting a Palestinian.

A bit of action: grenades, explosions... oh yeeees, more please! The journalist enjoys it.

I remember when the police opened access to the Lions’ Gate for journalists
after over five hours of censorship: journalists and cameramen ran like animals to take position and film.

Ten minutes, that’s all, and then we’re off again.

Journalists have become actors in this symptomatic conflict. The third force.
It's a war of image, a war of perceived reality.

I try not to feed it, but my very presence on the scene already implies a form of partiality.

If there were no cameras at the scenes of riots,
I’m almost certain they would be less violent, less deadly.
But when the whole world is watching, you give it everything.

I wouldn't go as far as to say it's all staged, but there is, undeniably, a kind of "order in the chaos."

I have many other short pieces like this. They're disturbing, but beautiful too, somehow. If you'd like to read more, answer this email, I'll curate and share some.