How to pronounce "forbidden"

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)