Emile Kas Nasrallah
I’m from Aleppo. I didn’t visit as a stranger carrying a camera, but rather as someone searching for a lost part of their soul amidst the rubble. I returned with the aim of reporting on the war-torn areas and the people silently trying to bring life back to their streets and markets.
I was wandering through Aleppo’s old neighbourhoods, in those alleys that were once teeming with vendors and visitors. Today, only a few craftsmen remain who have refused to leave, even though everything around them has been destroyed. I entered the small workshop of a coppersmith well-known to the people of Aleppo. He was busy engraving a copper plate with hands wrinkled with time and features that expressed rare resilience.
As I listened to his story and calmly filmed the details of his work, a group of young “content creators” suddenly appeared, wandering briskly among the ruins. They were holding their phones, looking for a “profitable shot.“ They had no time to listen to stories. They began asking the craftsman to re-hammer the copper with a show-stopping gesture “for the camera,” urging him to stage sad scenes to attract views. One of them offered him a small sum to recreate a staged scene that would look more “dramatic” on camera.
The craftsman stood in confusion and looked at me as if waiting for an answer. At that moment, I faced a difficult dilemma:
Do I accept becoming just another quick content creator chasing trends? Do I become like them, summarizing an entire city in a single shot that makes viewers cry? Or do I stick to what I learned as a journalist: that the real story is neither abbreviated nor contrived, but told as it is, with patience and respect?
Internally, questions raced:
Does anyone still want to read long stories?
Will my voice be heard amidst this flood of fast-paced videos, constantly chasing numbers?
The choice was difficult but clear. I sat with the craftsman for hours. I didn’t ask him to act, nor did I seek a shot that would “engage.” I was content to be a witness, conveying the details of his hands weaving the city’s memory into copper, and the sound of the hammer playing a melody of resilience above the rubble.
When I published my story later, it didn’t achieve the same viewership as those short, viral clips, but I received messages from readers who appreciated the story’s honesty and depth. I felt I’d succeeded in conveying the pulse of the place without exploiting it.
Ultimately, I realized that the greatest danger to journalism today isn’t just war, but the flattening of the story and emptying it of its true meaning. The danger is that the journalist becomes an “amateur” racing against time for quick money, even if the price is distorting the truth.
I learned that the stories of damaged cities like Aleppo aren’t told in a hurry, nor are they exploited for temporary buzz. True journalism requires respect for time, place, and people. The path I chose may not be the fastest or most profitable, but it is a path that gives me selfrespect and respect for the city to which I belong.
The original article was written in Arabic and then translated.
This article is part of the practical work carried out by the students of the Master’s in Travel Journalism.
