Hassan Haidar Diab: I was a journalist, but with the mind of a warrior
Journalist for the Croatian daily Večernji List talks about being a war correspondent and his early days in the PLO and Yugoslavia.
Hassan Haidar Diab reports from war zones and works as a journalist for the Croatian daily Večernji List. His life is the focus of the film “Hassanovi Ratovi” (Hassan’s Wars), which was screened at the latest edition of Dokufest, held from August 2 to 10, 2024, in Prizren.
Haidar Diab’s involvement in wars began early. He didn’t just cover them as a journalist, he also fought. Born in Beirut, Lebanon, he didn’t have an ordinary childhood. He joined the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) and picked up a rifle at the age of 10.
In 1981, when he was 18, the PLO sent him to study in Yugoslavia. Haidar Diab chose to study in Zagreb, Croatia, where he began his journalism career and continues to live today.
He began his career as a journalist covering the war in Croatia, followed by those in Bosnia and Herzegovina, Kosovo and later the Middle East, including Lebanon, Syria and Palestine. In these conflicts, he went as a journalist but, as he says, “with the mind of a warrior.” His mindset allowed him to access more dangerous areas and capture images that few others could. His fluency in both Croatian and Arabic further established his reputation for reporting on wars and conflicts in the Middle East, particularly for Balkan media.
Decades after leaving his homeland, he returned to Lebanon in 2022 to tell his story in “Hassanovi Ratovi,” directed by his colleague Robert Bubalo, an editor at Večernji List. It took Bubalo nearly 10 years to convince Hadar Diab to share his life story in a film.
Unlike the Balkans, where wars have ended, the Middle East, according to Haidar Diab, shows no signs of peace. Yet, he still sees the Balkans as a region where the smell of gunpowder lingers, always at risk of being reignited by Russia, who could use figures like Serbian President Aleksandar Vučić and Milorad Dodik, the president of Republika Srpska in Bosnia and Herzegovina, to spark conflict once again. Due to his investigative journalism on the Russian invasion of Ukraine, Haidar Diab is under police protection in Croatia. He has received direct threats from the Russian state apparatus, conveyed through their embassy in Croatia.
K2.0 met with Hassan Haidar Diab to talk about his experiences in war as both a soldier and a journalist, as well as his perspectives on the Balkans and the Middle East.
K2.0: Beirut and Zagreb are about 2,800 kilometers apart, and the two cities differ in many ways. How did you find yourself in Croatia, then part of Yugoslavia?
Hassan Haidar Diab: I was a member of the Palestine Liberation Organization. As a young fighter, I joined the organization at the age of 10 and gradually advanced from an ordinary fighter to a member of a special unit. At the time, the PLO had its own goals; many countries recognized it, and beyond the armed resistance, it aimed to develop intellectuals and educated individuals. That’s why they chose to send me to Yugoslavia.
There was an agreement between Josip Broz Tito and Yasser Arafat [the first president of the Palestinian Authority, chairman of the PLO and leader of Fatah, the largest faction within the PLO]. At the time, I was part of an elite unit within the Al-Fatah movement, called Force 17, which was primarily responsible for guarding Yasser Arafat. One day, I was told I would be sent to Yugoslavia, although other options included Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia and the Soviet Union. I chose Yugoslavia because Josip Broz Tito impressed me as a revolutionary and leader of the fight for freedom. I was 18, or just over 18, when I arrived in 1981.
Why did you choose Zagreb out of all the cities in Yugoslavia?
I had to choose between Belgrade, Sarajevo, Prishtina, Skopje, Ljubljana and I visited each one, including Titograd, now Podgorica. However, when I reached Ban Jelačić Square, now Republic Square in Zagreb, a café impressed me. We sat there, surrounded by Zagreb’s old residents. Even though I didn’t know Croatian at the time, their dialect and way of speaking fascinated me. That’s why I chose Zagreb. Despite Beirut being my birthplace, I still love Zagreb the most in the world.
Tito was the key to your coming to Yugoslavia, but he died a year before you came.
Unfortunately. To be honest, I always loved history and didn’t judge anyone. For example, my idol is Che Guevara, though some consider him a murderer. I don’t want to argue about it. Adem Jashari is also an icon of the liberation movement in Kosovo for me. Although some in Serbia and the former Yugoslavia view these figures as criminals, I see those who lead people to freedom as heroes. It’s a significant, powerful and painful endeavor.
What kind of childhood and youth did you leave behind in your homeland?
To be honest, I didn’t have a childhood at all. I regret that the most now, especially when I see other children enjoying themselves. I was born in 1963 into a large family of 11 — my mother, father, brothers and sisters. My father, an extraordinary man, worked in a factory. We slept, as we say, head-to-toe. The situation was tough. We lived in Shatila, [a refugee camp in southern Beirut] and right behind us lay the old airport. Back then, that area was empty and filled with vast fields of red sand. In 1967, Palestinians who had fled in 1948, [during the Arab-Israeli war where mass displacement and dispossession of Palestinians took place], began to arrive and set up camps and tents in the field behind our house, just 10 meters away. According to the 1948 agreement between the Lebanese government and the UN, the Lebanese army and police could not enter the camps, as it would violate international conventions. As a result, the Palestinians began to organize, acquiring weapons, arming themselves and conducting military exercises. We would sit and watch them like a movie, observing them while they were shooting, crawling and jumping.
At the age of 10, I held a rifle for the first time and felt an indescribable joy. It was a profound experience for me. I asked the PLO, “Can I join you?” They replied, “Yes, why not.” So, I joined the PLO at 10 years old and my parents were unaware. Later, I was instructed to go to southern Lebanon for intensive training in the mountains and valleys. I agreed and spent a few months there without anyone knowing where I was. When I told my mother I was leaving, she said, “Go, but behave yourself.”
At the age of 10, I underwent extremely difficult, almost brutal training, becoming a sort of “face” in all the madness. Simultaneously, I was subjected to brainwashing with stories about the liberation of Palestine, revolution and similar topics. As a kid, I was completely absorbed in it. My first conflict happened when I was 10 years and three months old, in May 1973. It was the first time I took part in fighting between the Lebanese army and the PLO. I remember they gave us old “Shmajserka” [MP 40 automatic weapons], and we went up to the eighth floor of a building. The Lebanese army had Mirage aircrafts. I fired at one, thinking I could bring it down, while three friends were with me. The plane didn’t drop bombs on the buildings because there were people in them. At that time, you could witness all kinds of things.
Then I realized for the first time that it wasn’t a game but a matter of life and death. Some of those who were with me had died, and others had lost their limbs. Then you realize that they had faced death and there was no turning back.
It seems that war has been a recurring part of your life, from your early years to your time covering conflicts in the former Yugoslavia and the Middle East as a journalist. How did you start working as a war journalist?
Unfortunately, the Middle East has been a major source of global problems for 75 years, and I believe neither you, nor I, nor our children, grandchildren, or even great-grandchildren will see peace there. When I studied political science, I was always interested in politics but wanted to avoid wars. When I arrived in Yugoslavia in 1981, I began to realize that the world is not only about war and murder; there is more to life. You can go to the sea, drink beer and enjoy yourself. This experience showed me that there is a different kind of life than one driven by war, where you might just be remembered by a photograph on a wall. It made me understand that life could be lived differently, day by day.
I followed the first wars in the former Yugoslavia: in Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and then in Kosovo — very, very cruel conflicts. My knowledge of Croatian and my previous work with Arabic media from the Middle East, including Lebanese and Saudi outlets, enabled me to work for them because Arabic is my native language. My initial reports were for Croatian media. I was careless, in the sense that I didn’t believe I would die. I had experienced incredible wars; the Lebanese wars are synonymous with all wars, marked by cruelty. Throughout, I never believed that I was at risk of dying, and it never occurred to me that a bullet doesn’t choose its target.
When I started reporting from Croatia, I ventured into areas that no one else dared to enter. I was a journalist, but with the mind of a warrior, which, I can tell you, is a terrible combination. Once you enter Syria, you stop being just a journalist and become a fighter who constantly seeks more. My journalist colleagues from Croatia saw where I was going and began begging me to get an amateur camera so I could film and give them material.
In 1990, I sent the footage to HRT [Croatian Radio Television] and other TV stations, and everyone wanted to hire me. After the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina, I faced many problems. Although I was a Croatian citizen, radicals viewed me as a mujahideen. Serbs saw me as both a mujahideen and an Ustasha, while Bosnians considered me as an Ustasha. I was the only journalist in the conflicts in Mostar and had footage that no one believed. An international journalist contacted me and asked to see the material. When she viewed the footage, she began to pull her hair. The footage showed grenades falling, heads flying and dead bodies everywhere — disgusting and truly terrible images.
Were you a journalist during the Kosovo war too?
I was in Kosovo when the bombing began and have traveled throughout the country since 1999, and I still visit. Kosovo’s war was a fair war for liberation — this is a simple fact. I have always been interested in Kosovo for several reasons, similar to my interest in Croatia, but Croatians haven’t paid the price that Albanians have. This desire for independence is extraordinary to me, and perhaps someone will criticize me for this, but the interesting thing is that Adem Demaçi was a great friend of mine, and we remained friends until his death. I don’t want to talk about his ideology — Greater Albania, Small Albania — I don’t care. But we must acknowledge that he paid a high price for the liberation of his people. He could have remained silent, sat in a café, and enjoyed himself, but he chose to pay the price and deserves to be honored.
What are the most interesting moments in your career, perhaps the three most important ones that you want to share?
For me, every journalistic assignment is an adventure. When I arrived in Libya in 2011, I initially didn’t realize that my cell phone wouldn’t work and that I would be declared dead or missing in Croatia for the next 10 days. It took about two weeks to reach Tripoli due to heavy fighting, and then we headed to Misrata. There, the Libyan army ambushed us, and the war raged for two days while we couldn’t escape. It was the first time someone handed me a rifle and asked if I could shoot. I admitted that I didn’t know how, despite the danger to my life and being threatened until the end, I didn’t fire a single bullet.
Another situation occurred with Ljiljana, my wife, and me in Syria, after they had declared me dead in Libya. Ljiljana insisted I wouldn’t go anywhere without her, and that’s exactly what happened — she experienced the war as well. Damascus was engulfed in terrible fighting on the day we arrived in Syria. The battle continued until the early hours of the morning. At one point, Ljiljana suggested “Let’s return to Beirut.” But how and where, as the war had already started.
The next day, we traveled to Homs, where fierce fighting raged. We were traveling behind the army, but our driver took a wrong turn; while the army went right, he turned left, and we ended up near a stadium. When we got there, the space was completely empty and we parked. Suddenly, attackers began shooting at us from both sides. The driver, who was a local, abandoned the car and fled. Ljiljana and I remained in the car, but based on my war experience, I told her to get out. We exited the car as bullets whizzed over our heads. This lasted about half an hour, though it felt like an eternity, until Syrian army soldiers pushed back the attackers and rescued us.
Then they asked me where the driver was, and I told them I didn’t know. It turned out the driver had run across the road and hidden under a shelter. Every trip to the battlefield is a unique adventure.
Once we returned along the 10-km highway between Damascus and Homs, rebels could shoot at the road at any moment. Everything hinged on an agreement and just as we arrived, they started firing at the bus we were on. Although we were civilians, many soldiers were with us, and they immediately loaded their rifles and fired back. Chaos erupted — no one knew who was shooting at whom, or, as they say, who was drinking and who was paying. That was the first time I felt real fear.
The Lebanon war was terrible. I was reporting in 2006, and as journalists, we talked about what it’s like when 100 F-16 aircraft hit everything in a row. This, my friend, cannot be described in words. There were also “beautiful” moments — sitting in a cafe, drinking, while grenades fell somewhere in the distance, while we smoked hookah, and so on.
Today, the Middle East is burning again. The conflict between Israel and Hamas, along with its tragic consequences for the Palestinians, has captured the world’s attention, partly due to the many crimes broadcasted in the media. Do you expect to see an end to this conflict soon?
I am 61 years old and have been self-aware for 50 of those years. I have always, unfortunately, said that generations in the Middle East have no hope. From the start of this radicalism, I pointed out that it exists on both sides. I remember 1993, when Yasser Arafat and Yitzhak Rabin signed an agreement [Oslo Accord, in which Israel recognized the PLO as the representative of Palestinians and the PLO recognized Israel’s right to exist and renounced terrorism]. But within both nations, Israelis and Palestinians, radicals somehow do not want that peace. Rabin was killed because of this agreement.
I do not accept Hamas’s ideology that advocates for a Palestine “from the river to the sea.” What are we supposed to do with the Jews, with the Israelis? Throw them into the sea? Even if they are expelled, they will still form some kind of resistance and the cycle of violence will continue. On the other hand, I reject the beliefs of radical Jews who claim this land as their own and demand that all Palestinians be expelled. Unfortunately, I do not believe the Middle East will ever see peace. Neither side, now nor in the next 100 years, is ready for it. As long as religion on both sides fuels radicalism, peace will remain impossible. The Torah does not endorse the actions of radical Jews on the ground, just as the Quran does not support what Hamas does.
Critics are increasingly challenging the way international media covers conflicts in the Middle East. They argue that the media often displays biases when reporting on different cases, such as Palestine versus Ukraine. How justified do you think this criticism is?
The media can be terrible, but I assure you that we have not lost our way. To be completely honest, my values are my objectivity and independence as a journalist. I have paid a heavy price for these values — I am currently under police protection. Initially, Wahhabis threatened me and now the Russians are making threats. It’s a truly difficult existence. You never know when you might have to leave home, especially with the current Russian threats.
You cannot simply sit in an office and write about these situations because hypocrisy, unfortunately, runs deep. It doesn’t matter whether you are Lebanese, Kosovar, or from any other background — we are all people. Yet, the media often accepts and spreads fake news. For instance, the atrocity that occurred on October 7, when Hamas entered Israel, cannot be justified by anyone, regardless of their nationality. However, what happened afterward? We took one side and focused on what Benjamin Netanyahu claimed about atrocities such as raping and beheading children. All the media reported these claims, and even Joe Biden spoke about them and expressed his grief. But where is the evidence?
The media is no longer the free press it once was. Unfortunately, it has become politicized and serves political agendas. Journalism has reached its lowest point. I remember 10-15 years ago, when I started as a journalist, everyone treated us with respect. Now, when people learn that you’re a journalist, they often say, “Get out of here, hawk.” Today, we’ve become those “hawks,” people who spread hatred, intolerance and misinformation. I strive to remain objective, even though objectivity comes at a cost. This is why I value my journalism; I live day by day in pursuit of the truth. Regardless of whether people like it or not, journalism must convey the truth.
On the other hand, the war in Ukraine and Russia’s invasion have destabilized Europe. How do you see this conflict impacting the Balkans?
Unfortunately, the Balkans cannot escape Russia’s influence. We face a significant problem with Aleksandar Vučić. I’m not stating this because I’m in Kosovo or Prizren, nor as a Croatian journalist; I’m presenting the facts. As long as Vučić, Dodik and some Montenegrins who follow Serbian politics remain in power, the situation could become extremely dangerous. We don’t know when Vladimir Putin might decide to destabilize the Balkans and prompt Dodik to declare the independence of Republika Srpska, which could lead to a new war. Alternatively, Putin could order Vučić to attack Kosovo. Although Vučić often boasts about military action, these threats are more science fiction than reality. He understands very well that an attack on Kosovo would be an attack on the international community.
Unfortunately, Aleksandar Vučić is not a pragmatic politician. He adheres to the politics of Slobodan Milošević and clings to the outdated ideology of Greater Serbia, which continues to shape his actions.
In the Balkans, the smell of gunpowder still lingers, meaning that a single spark could ignite the entire region.
A documentary film about your life in Kosovo premiered at this year’s DokuFest. How did it feel to return to your hometown to shoot the documentary?
Returning to my hometown to shoot the documentary was incredibly difficult, and I struggled to make the decision. My colleague, director Robert Bubalo, who is an editor at Večernji List, had been urging me to start this project for almost ten years. He knew who I was in general but wasn’t familiar with all the details. In the end, I agreed for several reasons. First, the world is growing increasingly radical, whether through war or religious extremism, and the situation in the Middle East keeps getting worse. I wanted to tell my story as a boy who, at the age of 10, was thrust into an extraordinary war. I aimed to deliver a powerful message against radicalization by sharing the story of a lost child who, at 10, became an experienced fighter and is now one of the most respected and promising journalists in Croatia.
The decision was not easy, returning to those moments was incredibly painful. I cried at night because revisiting those times was so difficult. I will not say that I’m ashamed of what happened, but I carry trauma with me. My entire class, my whole school, and my friends — all of whom were just children, aged 10 to 15 — died in that war. I have several cemeteries near my home that I avoid because they evoke terrible memories. I haven’t even visited my mother’s grave, which is also there, because it reopens old wounds. Walking among those graves, seeing the images of those young lives lost, brings back all the painful memories.
Your film was screened at DokuFest. How was the reception in Prizren, Kosovo?
The reception was absolutely fantastic. I’m thrilled that, after Velika Gorica, the city where I live, the film was shown in Prizren, a city I deeply admire. I love Prizren for its incredible history and the remarkably tolerant people who live there. You can hear Croatian, Serbian, Turkish, Albanian and Romani being spoken in the cafes, and everyone interacts without prejudice.
Sometimes, when I’m in Zagreb or another city and my sister calls me from Lebanon, I tell her I’ll call her back in five minutes because speaking Arabic tends to draw attention. But in Prizren, that’s not the case. Kosovo feels like home to me, along with Croatia and Lebanon. You might not believe it, but every time I return to Kosovo, I truly feel at home. Kosovo has an incredible spirit. Ljiljana knows that even when we go to Lebanon, I often spend more time in Damascus than in Beirut because Damascus has a unique soul. Similarly, Kosovo, from border to border, has a soul of its own.
This article has been edited for length and clarity. The conversation was conducted in Bosnian/Croatian/Serbian.
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- This story was originally written in Albanian.