Editor’s note: Meshkal is publishing this first-hand testimony by photojournalist Montassar Seinkez, a longtime contributor to Meshkal. This is the first time Meshkal will be publishing an article of this format & style where the author is directly engaged in the topic being covered—a divergence from our regular, objective reportage and interview format. Seinkez, like all our contributors, practices his journalism with a high-level of objectivity & professionalism and does not seek to become part of the stories he covers. However, the recent US/European/Israeli genocide of Palestinians in Gaza has included, as a component of the genocide campaign, the targeting of journalists for assassination, arrest, censorship, and other forms of pressure and intimidation. As a result of this, journalists have reluctantly been made part of the story just for doing their jobs. We believe publishing the testimony of journalists both as journalists and as targets of repression and oppression for their work is in the public interest. For his work covering the convoy, Seinkez was awarded a certificate of honor by the National Union of Tunisian Journalists on June 25.
The Sumoud (resilience/steadfastness) overland aid convoy to break the genocidal US/European/Israeli siege on Gaza, organized by the Joint Action for Palestine Coordination Committee in Tunisia, set off from Tunis on June 9, 2025. From the moment on May 13 when they officially announced the plans for the convoy, something inside me was ignited. It wasn’t just a passing news. It was a call… a call that wakes you from your sleep, makes you stand, breathe deeply, and feel that all of life has come together in one decision: “Go!” my heart screamed.
But the mixture of excitement and an overwhelming desire to report on the convoy was matched by a certain amount of hesitation. It wasn’t a hesitation stemming from fear, but from the weight of responsibilities: my work, my family, other obligations. And there was another obstacle to going: the secret law (likely an internal Ministry of Interior circulaire) that allows customs officers to prevent Tunisians under 35 from traveling to certain destinations unless they have written and government-notarized parental permission. In this case, my father refused to grant me permission.
The holiday that was not a holiday
On the Eid Al-Adha holiday, on June 7, two days before the convoy’s scheduled launch from Tunis, I returned home from Tunis to Zarzis. But my heart remained in the capital. I followed the news of the convoy and its preparations. And when it launched on June 9, I followed the news of its journey across Tunisia, the massive celebratory receptions it received as it passed through each city on its way south and east. The regret of not being able to report on it burned inside me.
I said to myself: “If I can’t walk with them, I will at least be there to welcome them.” So I headed with my friends towards Medenine, and there our car broke down. We managed to hail a passing car and begged to be taken to the convoy reception point, and that was it. At the closest Tunisian city to Libya, Ben Guerdane, and at the Ras Jdir border crossing, I photographed the convoy and its progression. And when I said goodbye to those crossing Ras Jdir, I felt my heart being ripped out at not being able to go with them to document it.
The rejection that became a decision
I came home, but I wasn’t the same. I felt like I had betrayed something inside me. Two days later, I fell into a severe depression. I got up from my bed, feeling like I was suffocating, and I screamed inside. Finally I convinced my father to grant me permission. I returned to the capital at night, gathering my papers and carrying my passport, my heart beating like the drums of war. But as for money, I had practically nothing in my pocket but faith. I didn’t have enough for a flight. And even if I somehow managed to get a ticket, I didn’t know how I would be able to get around inside Libya without money. I was ready to walk to Libya. But then a blessing came from where I least expected. It was a small sum, but it was enough to buy a plane ticket.
I flew from Tunis to Misrata with Khalil and Rayan. There, “uncle” Saleh, a Libyan volunteer helping the convoy, was waiting for us in his car. He welcomed us with indescribable warmth. He drove us to the outskirts of Sirte, where the convoy was, arriving around 2:00 AM.
Access to open prison
The convoy wasn’t as we had left it. The convoy, which had set out to break the Gaza siege, was itself besieged. The siege was imposed by forces under the authority of General Khalifa Haftar under the pretext of “security” measures. This was the beginning of the territory in eastern Libya supposedly controlled by the competing Government of National Stability (GNS), but the real authority is presumed to be with Hafter, a former CIA-asset who lived in exile in northern Virginia in the United States for two decades after receiving support from the U.S. in his attempt to overthrow Libyan leader Moammar Gaddafi. The supposed security measures seemed to contradict earlier public assurances by GNS officials supporting the convoy.
I registered my name on the list of participants and waited for the daylight to start filming and documenting. As the sun rose, I realized that the convoy was in a tragic situation: sleeping in the open, lack of water, cut off from food, no communication coverage, no connection with the world.
I went out with a media team accompanied by Haifaa Al-Mansouri, an organizer with the convoy, and Yasmine Al-Hamrouni, a Tunisian journalist in charge of managing communication issues related to the convoy. We traveled dozens of kilometers to find a telecom signal. Walking around, I discovered something that has scarred me to this day: Hafter’s forces had pinned us down in an area with filled with skeletons. Was it a mass dump for corpses or the the site of a battle in the ongoing civil war that has raged in Libya since the 2011 NATO intervention?
Hell on Earth
Back at the camp, an escalation began at night. Kidnappings, threats, weapons pointed at chests, intimidation, harassment and terror. Authorities dragged some participants from their sleeping quarters. They wanted to kidnap Wael Naouar, one of the lead organizers. And we? We guarded each other like we were on a battlefield.
At dawn on the third day, the siege was tightened even further. Even an ambulance who had come to transport a participant for medical treatment was blocked from reaching our camp.
As the crisis continued, we marched in protest toward Haftar’s central security checkpoint. We were met with police dogs, intimidation, and a readiness for bloody repression. But our voices rose: “With our souls, with our blood, we will redeem you, Palestine.” In the face of the tension, a decision was issued by the convoy leaders under threat: dismantle the sit-in immediately and leave the area.
The decision was bitter, but necessary to save the detainees. We were forced to withdraw 50 kilometers back, towards the Buerat Al-Hassoun area, which is located within the western Libyan government’s territory. The people of Misrata welcomed us warmly, providing us with a mosque as a shelter for the women participants, and providing us with water and food. We were also secured by special units that provided us with internet coverage via Starlink.
Moments of brokenness… and contemplation
I sat in a corner, alone, and started crying. I said to myself: we stayed there for two days, during which we created something like a home: we prayed, we sang, we cried, and we laughed. Everyone in the convoy became a family, not just fellow travelers. But the siege we experienced was nothing compared to that in Gaza. What about their years under siege?
We stayed in Buerat Al-Hassoun for two days. We waited in anticipation, in prayer, listening to inspiring music from “Uncle” Khamis and Mohsen, and evenings spent with friends who also became like family. Meanwhile, the convoy leadership continued negotiations with eastern authorities to release detainees while searching for an alternative sea route. Ultimately, the negotiations failed and we heard the news: the nine detainees would be released, but on condition that the convoy leave Libyan territory completely. It seemed the convoy had no choice in order to save the fellow convoy participants.
We moved back towards Zliten, where we had been received before… and received again. But we were ashamed, feeling that we had burdened them, and we returned without success. We were given shelter in a school building, Al-Khansa School, and there the Imam of Zliten gave a sermon to us: “Do not listen to those who discourage you… their words make the children of Zion happy.”
His words were like a lamp in the darkness, raising our spirits and reviving what remained of our strength. That night, the official announcement came: all detainees had been released. We came back reassured that we had left no one behind. We had a small celebration, which mended some of our wounds. Then we headed back to Tunisia.
We, the sons of the south, had returned to Zarzis. The rest of the convoy continued north to the capital, where it was given a hero’s welcome. The Sumoud convoy was an arrow towards Gaza. It may not have reached Gaza, but it touched hearts. It planted hope.
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