Every Frame Has Its Martyr
Martyrdom seekers. Martyrdom operations.
From the alleys of Shuja'iyya to the valleys of the South.
A salute to the military media. A salute to those who break through the silence.
They would tell the martyr Mohammed Afif, the head of Hezbollah's military media relations, to get rid of his phone during the war. He refused. "All my work runs through it. Without it, I have no work."
And while holding his phone, he was killed.
This is the contradiction at the heart of the resistance military media: the same technology that brings their heroism to the world is the technology that kills them. Yet they never stop, because the voice of the resistance is louder than anything.
Think about what happens before a single clip reaches your screen. Somebody films it. Inside the kill zone. During an ambush. They raise a lens in a world where lenses are hunted. No device is above suspicion. After the pager attacks, even the camera itself might be compromised.
Somebody has to then move the footage. Physically, a person walking or driving through surveilled terrain, drones hovering above, the signals tracked. Or digitally, through channels the enemy is actively trying to intercept.
Somebody has to edit it on a computer. Connected to power. Connected to the internet. Every single connection is a trace, and every trace is a risk.
A fighter on the front lines, in a strange way, is protected by his disconnection. He carries a weapon, not a Wi-Fi signal. But the men of the military media, they carry both.
Fadi. There was a launcher the enemy hit and thought they had finished. The fighters pulled it out from under the rubble, repaired it, and fired it again. The enemy struck the new position. They dragged it out again. Fixed it. Loaded it. Fired it again. Four times—under direct fire, under drones. The man who operated the launcher is the same man who filmed it. The military man and the media man are the same person. Khalil Sweidan. Martyr, on the road to Al-Quds.
On both shoulders, he carried the war, the kinetic war and the informational war.
In a tradition where blood writes history and testimony preserves it, their role is not secondary. The sword and the voice fuse as one.
"If you are not Husseini on the path of martyrdom, then follow the path of Zainab, on the path of information." — Martyr Khader Adnan.
In recent days, Hezbollah's military media released footage of a different nature we are used to. It reminded us of something we have seen before: the raw, personal scenes from inside Gaza, where cameramen film with one hand and carry the wounded with the other. Fighters preparing and launching rockets from mobile platforms hidden inside structures, transported on trucks. Men breaking walls to create firing apertures.
"To the soul of the martyred leader."
The cameraman admits it's his first time filming. Martyrdom seekers. He watches them fire and then disappear, moving before the sky or the tanks can respond.
The South, like Gaza—as one.
The launcher is hit repeatedly. Repaired. Secured. Rebuilt. Reloaded. Repositioned. Again and again. The weapon is not what is in their hands. It is in their minds, their determination, and their refusal to surrender or be humiliated.
This is not normal media production. There is no safety team. There is no second take. The one holding the camera is the same one holding the rifle.
And yet we consume the footage passively, with the expectation that it should be abundant, polished, and immediate, as though it costs nothing.
Martyrdom seekers.
Every frame is resistance. Every upload is an accepted risk. The editors, the fighters, the uploaders, they live inside the enemy's most dangerous information environment... just so that we can all see.
And the coverage continues.
