When I turned 19, I started my career
as the first female photojournalist
in the Gaza Strip, Palestine.
My work as a woman photographer
was considered a serious insult
to local traditions,
and created a lasting stigma
for me and my family.
The male-dominated field made my presence
unwelcome by all possible means.
They made clear that a woman
must not do a man's job.
Photo agencies in Gaza refused to train me
because of my gender.
The "No" sign was pretty clear.
Three of my colleagues
went as far as to drive me to an open air strike area
where the explosion sounds
were the only thing I could hear.
Dust was flying in the air,
and the ground was shaking like a swing beneath me.
I only realized we weren't there to document the event
when the three of them got back into the armored Jeep
and drove away, waving and laughing,
leaving me behind in the open air strike zone.
For a moment, I felt terrified,
humiliated, and sorry for myself.
My colleagues' action was not
the only death threat I have received,
but it was the most dangerous one.
The perception of women's life in Gaza
is passive.
Until a recent time, a lot of women were not allowed
to work or pursue education.
At times of such doubled war including
both social restrictions on women
and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict,
women's dark and bright stories were fading away.
To men, women's stories were seen
as inconsequential.
I started paying closer attention
to women's lives in Gaza.
Because of my gender, I had access
to worlds where my colleagues were forbidden.
Beyond the obvious pain and struggle,
there was a healthy dose
of laughter and accomplishments.
In front of a police compound in Gaza City
during the first war in Gaza,
an Israeli air raid managed to destroy the compound
and break my nose.
For a moment, all I saw was white, bright white,
like these lights.
I thought to myself I either got blind
or I was in heaven.
By the time I managed to open my eyes,
I had documented this moment.
Mohammed Khader, a Palestinian worker
who spent two decades in Israel,
as his retirement plan,
he decided to build a four-floor house,
only by the first field operation at his neighborhood,
the house was flattened to the ground.
Nothing was left but the pigeons he raised
and a jacuzzi, a bathtub
that he got from Tel Aviv.
Mohammed got the bathtub
on the top of the rubble
and started giving his kids
an every morning bubble bath.
My work is not meant to hide the scars of war,
but to show the full frame
of unseen stories of Gazans.
As a Palestinian female photographer,
the journey of struggle, survival and everyday life
has inspired me to overcome the community taboo
and see a different side of war and its aftermath.
I became a witness with a choice:
to run away or stand still.
Thank you.
(Applause)