Trapped Under Rubble: One Reporter Survived, Her Colleague Did Not

The afternoon sky over al-Tiri cleared for a moment, then filled with fire.

Zeinab Faraj, 21, and Amal Khalil, 42, were documenting the aftermath of a month of Israeli airstrikes in southern Lebanon when the ceasefire held in early April. They had planned the trip to document the destruction in villages near Bint Jbeil, where Faraj grew up. Khalil had reached out to Faraj after seeing her social media work, and the two had collaborated on several stories since then. Faraj was finishing a degree in radio and television while freelancing, and she expected the assignment to be routine.

"I had absolutely no sense of fear," Faraj said. Gunfire and artillery were audible in the background, sounds she associated with her job as a videographer. The group included Ali Nabil Bazzi, 27, a municipal official, and Mohammed Hourani, 37, a friend of the mayor. The four had met earlier at Tebnine governmental hospital, a gathering point considered relatively safe. Bazzi was scheduled to sign a marriage contract that evening but insisted on joining the drive south.

Faraj did not hear the missile. She heard Khalil scream and saw the car ahead of them catch fire. The two women stepped out of their vehicle. Faraj, feeling oddly calm, thought she could pull Bazzi from the wreckage. Khalil repeated that the men were gone. Faraj saw their bodies torn apart.

Drones arrived next, flying low. Faraj said one passed so close to her face that she tried to cover it, and it rose again when she moved. They called emergency services, which promised help repeatedly. Faraj described those assurances as working "like an anaesthetic." A paramedic instructed them to drive up the road because ambulances were blocked from reaching them. Their car was hit by a missile as they tried to get back in.

The impact threw both women backward. Khalil wrapped her arms around Faraj. Khalil said she hoped the drone would "think we were dead." They took shelter in a nearby house. Khalil was bleeding from her face, hand, and leg, and could not move. Faraj sent a final message to her sister before her phone died: "There's no hope left. Forgive me."

Faraj woke trapped under rubble, struggling to breathe. A paramedic held her by the shoulders while a second worker cleared the debris. They pulled her out while drones returned and a stun grenade was dropped nearby. In the ambulance, Faraj mistook the engine for a drone. At the hospital, nurses initially reassured her about Khalil before going silent. Khalil is believed to have died about an hour before paramedics were allowed back to rescue Faraj.

The Israeli military stated it had identified saboteurs violating the ceasefire. Human rights groups called the attack a war crime, noting the military received repeated requests to allow a rescue while the women sheltered. A week earlier, an Israeli military spokesperson had shared a video of Khalil and labeled it "terrorist media." Khalil had also received death threats from Israeli numbers.

Faraj is returning to university but still struggles to walk properly. A facial injury affects the movement of one eyebrow, and her hand is visibly injured. She wakes at night screaming and feels on edge when she hears drones or warplanes. Faraj remains uncertain about returning to frontline journalism. She is haunted by the image of Hourani on the ground, his eyes open and looking at her.