ABEER AYYOUB

Journalist, 26

Born in Gaza City, Gaza

Interviewed in Gaza City, Gaza

In the spring of 2013, we manage to travel to Gaza after navigating a maze of bureaucracy with both the Egyptian government and Gaza’s ruling party, Hamas. Inside the tightly sealed borders of Gaza, our guide and translator is a young journalist named Abeer Ayyoub. Through our conversations, we soon realize Abeer possesses an interesting perspective on life in Gaza. And though journalists generally avoid interviewing other journalists for stories, the more we get to know Abeer, the more we know her narrative is a valuable one to share with our readers.

During our time with Abeer, she is constantly on her phone or tablet. Like many full-time journalists, she compulsively checks her e-mail, keeps track of social media, and plans meetings throughout the day. But her real weakness is Instagram. If she’s not using her devices for work, she’s taking pictures of what she’s doing. Sitting at a café: picture. Walking down the street: picture. At the corner store: picture. Nothing is too banal to make her Instagram feed, but it makes for a thorough view of life for a young working woman in Gaza.

As part of Gaza’s small middle class, Abeer has better access than other Gazans to resources that are hard to come by in the midst of the blockade that Israel has implemented since 2007. She also has access to small comforts that make her the envy of her peers. “My friend from the American consulate was going to Jordan, and he asked me if I wanted him to bring me back anything,” she tells us. “And I said, ‘As many lip glosses as you can carry.’ I’m usually out on the streets looking for stories for ten hours a day, and I need three things in my bag—a notebook, a pen, and lip gloss.”

GAZA WAS LIKE A HOLLYWOOD MOVIE

Oh, well, of course it was just lovely growing up in Gaza. It was like a Hollywood movie. But not a romance or comedy—more like an action movie. I’ve witnessed two Intifadas, two military offensives, one Hamas coup.1 Still, the more trouble I’ve witnessed, the more I’ve felt lucky to survive, and to be alive.

I was born in Gaza City the year the First Intifada started, in 1987.² By the time I started school, I’d already become used to the sight of Israeli soldiers patrolling the streets every morning. I used to be really scared of them—my grandma would warn me that I shouldn’t talk to them. In school, we’d teach each other tips about dealing with the soldiers. For example—when you see an Israeli jeep, don’t run, ’cause the soldiers will think you’re doing something bad. But we were naïve as children, and I didn’t think too much about who the soldiers were or why they were around. I only knew there were strange people with green uniforms everywhere. And I wondered, All of the soldiers have guns, but nobody else I see ever does. Who do they need to protect themselves against with guns if everyone else only has rocks as weapons? But I didn’t understand the occupation at all. It just wasn’t something my family talked about when I was growing up.

I grew up feeling like a typical Gazan. I have four brothers and five sisters. I’m number eight out of ten kids. My dad had a good income when I was young—he ran a metalworking business. But because there were ten children, it cost him a lot to send us all to school. So even though my family was relatively well off, my childhood seemed typical. I got the things I needed, but not all the things I wanted. We’d get new clothes for school, but not whatever we asked for or anything like that. Like most people in the community, we’d go to shop when the school year started, and then shop around Eid Al-Fitr, the feast after Ramadan, and then Eid Al-Adha.3

We lived on a street that was made up entirely of my family. My dad had one house for his family, and he had four brothers with their own houses on the block. So between my siblings and my cousins, I spent my whole childhood playing with family. As boys and girls, we’d play soccer together in the street, go to school together, then come home together. We had a few neighbor kids nearby who would come play with us as well.

My mother was a normal housewife in many ways. She worked very hard and tried to give all of us kids the attention we wanted. I remember when it was time to do homework, she’d try to help us all. Of course, she couldn’t spend much time with any one of us! I still remember her teaching me how to write my first words, though, in Arabic and in English. She didn’t know English herself, but she’d memorize my English lessons and try to help me understand them. I remember her reciting the days of the week in English, so that I’d learn, even if that’s all she knew.

The Second Intifada started in 2000, when I was twelve or thirteen. I saw a lot of shooting and violence—there were direct clashes around the Israeli settlements.4 And I used to go to school some days and not other days because of what was happening out in the streets. Other young people from schools around the area, they used to come and get us out to go and participate in the clashes. It was violent all the time. Mostly, we just tried to stay safe. A lot of days, we’d leave school early because there were often clashes at the end of the school day. If we slipped out before the day ended, we might not have to walk home through teargas.

During the time of the Second Intifada, I was a teenager, and back then I was the stereotypical stupid girl who wanted to get married at the age of sixteen. I’d never dream of having male friends I might just hang out with alone.

The separation of boys and girls was actually something that surprised me at first, but I got used to it quickly. Some of the neighbor boys I used to play soccer with every day suddenly stopped talking to me around the time I turned fifteen, and my brothers and cousins told me I should just pretend I didn’t know them. This was the culture—these boys I’d played with for ten years every day were suddenly strangers to me, since they weren’t related and I was a young woman. It was disappointing, but I got used to believing that wearing a hijab was something important, that I had to hide myself from men.⁵

My dad always told me that I was the most clever of his children, and I got great grades. But I never had any examples of women who went on to have impressive careers, and nobody ever encouraged me to think in those terms. But I studied very hard. Honestly, I didn’t think I was very pretty, and I thought I’d have a hard time finding a husband. I thought I’d prove I was special instead by getting good grades and a very high grade on the college qualifying exams. And I did. My parents were so impressed by my score, they told me that they’d support me in going to any school and in any field I chose. I was studying for the exams in 2005, and that was a big year in Gaza as well. It was the year Israeli soldiers left Gaza. That felt like a real achievement.6

The next year, I started at Islamic University of Gaza here in Gaza City.⁷ I wasn’t happy about religious control of the university, but it had a curriculum in English literature that I wanted to study, and it was impossible to attend a university at the time that wasn’t under Islamist control if you lived in Gaza. I’d been studying English through school, and I wanted to keep that up. I thought it might be a good way to get a job doing something important after school.

So I spent my first year at university studying English literature. Then, in 2006, Hamas captured Gilad Shalit, and Gaza became a different place.⁸ Israel began cracking down, and we had less money and less freedom. Because we didn’t have as much money coming into our household, my dad wanted to pull us out of school. My mom is fond of gold and accessories, but she got all of her jewelry together and sold it all to pay for our college fees. So she’s the reason I could continue my education. In many ways, it was my mom who made me what I am today.

I WOULD WAKE UP AND SCREAM, “I JUST NEED TO SLEEP!”

In my second year at university, I took a course where the teacher asked us to do a research project on people working with English-language skills. I hit on the topic of news editing. I don’t remember the reason. I just wanted something to write about so I could hand in a paper. But when I started searching, I found so many books on the subject, and they were really interesting.

Then as part of the project I interviewed a journalist here in Gaza—his name was Saud Abu Ramadan. He was a freelancer, and he wrote for newspapers all over the world. Our interview was really lovely, and he told me he’d be happy to mentor me as a journalist if I wanted. I accepted. Here in the media world, there are so many creeps who expect something from a girl. I’ve met so many men who will be like, “I’ll teach you about journalism, but you have to do something for me.” Bad stuff. But Saud wasn’t like that, and through his office I also met a journalist named Fares Akram, who was a journalist and also a research consultant for Human Rights Watch.9 They were both professional, and I learned a lot working with them. I started training with them once a week until I figured out it was exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to be a journalist.

I was still a student when Israel sent soldiers into Gaza in 2008.10 Because of the bombing, I was shut in at home for twenty-two days with my extended family. There were more than thirty of us in a single apartment, and we’d have breakfast, lunch, and dinner together—being together made us all feel a little safer. There was no electricity at all during that time. It was very cold, and we spent many hours huddled up under blankets. We cooked our food on an open fire and we had a little tank of propane gas to cook with as well, but we were trying to conserve the gas as long as possible. Nobody was selling things out in the open in Gaza during that time. During the days, some of my brothers would sneak out and head to secret black markets they knew about for some basic supplies. I spent most days listening to news on a battery-powered radio. I was trying to understand the situation as a journalist. What is really happening? What’s the real story? How are journalists trying to cover these stories? As scared as I was, I felt like that time was a kind of training for me.

There were air strikes day and night. We were all especially scared at night, when we were trying to sleep. I remember falling asleep for a couple of minutes, then hearing the bombs start to fall. I would wake up and scream, “I just need to sleep!” By the final days of the campaign, we were all crying because we wanted to sleep so badly.

We learned to distinguish two types of noise—the zzzz of drones passing overhead, and the whoosh of F-16s coming in for air strikes. The sound of drones was annoying, but hearing the whoosh of F-16s was frightening, because it meant bombing was about to start. My nephews, who were just infants at the time, they learned to tell drones apart from planes. Nowadays, they don’t even wake up for drones. We were never hit, though we did have windows broken on our building from nearby strikes. The windows on an apartment above ours came down. Nobody was injured, but I still remember the sound of the bomb falling—schhhhh.

I became paranoid after so many days of bombing. I used to think, My house will never be targeted because we have no one engaged in military work. But it could be for any reason—a militant passing by in a car. Maybe someone in one of the empty fields by our building—the bombers used to target empty fields because militants might use them for launching rockets.

Then, after three weeks, there was a cease-fire. I went back to the university the day after the cease-fire, even though it was still dangerous. When I saw the campus, I cried. It had been demolished. In many ways I hated that school—I didn’t like the strict religious element—but the devastation made me cry. The school made many repairs over the next month, just fixing broken windows and making sure standing buildings were safe enough. And then all of us students went back to classes, even in buildings where the roofs were still broken. I was in school another year before I graduated, in 2010.

For the next year I worked as a fixer—someone who helped journalists make contacts in Gaza, set up interviews, that sort of thing. I was actively learning about journalism, meeting a lot of journalists. It was a good apprenticeship.

I WAS NAÏVE AND ANSWERED ALL THE QUESTIONS THEY WERE ASKING

I had my first big exposure to how the media world works in Gaza in January 2011. I was going to take part in a solidarity gathering with the Egyptian revolution.11 I was also going to meet one of my mentors, Fares Akram, who was going to cover the story. There were about twenty-six of us at the demonstration. But really, as soon as everyone showed up, the Hamas police force was already there preparing to shut it down. I think Hamas was afraid of protest movements in the Middle East spreading to Gaza and challenging their authority.

Just as I arrived at the scene, I got a call from Fares, who told me the demonstration was off, and he told me where to go to find his car so he could give me a ride home. I went and got into his car, and then a Hamas policeman walked up and said, “Your identity cards, please.” Fares gave his identity card to them.

But while this was happening, some female police officers were attacking some of the female protesters. One of the protesters wasn’t wearing a head scarf, and the female officer pulled her by the hair, slapped her, asked her why she wasn’t a real Muslim. I was worried I might get in trouble—Hamas would check to see if men and women riding in cars together were married or related, and if not, there could be an arrest. The officer at our car was distracted, and so I just stepped out of the car and started walking. After a couple of minutes, I found the policeman following me on his motorcycle. And when I turned around and made eye contact, he pulled up and said, “Your cell phone and your identity card.” I started crying like an idiot and gave him the phone and my ID. Then he said, “You can come and retrieve them from the police station.” I followed him to the station. And when I entered, I found four other women from the demonstration. They were acting strong and tough, but I was crying. My family didn’t know where I was, and the police refused to give me a phone call. Then they began interrogating me, and I was naïve and answered all the questions they were asking.

I was interrogated by a female officer, and she kept asking me about Fares and what I was doing with him. I was like, “I don’t know him. We just met. He’s a journalist, but I don’t know where he lives.” The interrogator said, “He’s the brother of so-and-so, we know.” And I was like, “Eh, no, he’s not.” She was trying to outsmart me.

Then the officer started going through my bag, asking me what was in it. She found a prescription drug I was taking for an injured leg, and she wanted to know about that. Then finally she said, “Okay, call your family members to come.” And that was the worst moment, because I thought, What should I tell my mom and dad? I called my brother—he has good relations with people from Hamas. And then I signed a paper saying I wouldn’t participate in such events later.

I went back home to find the story all over the news in Gaza. Everyone was talking about it, because it was the first time that Hamas had arrested women for protesting. It was a big story to see women arrested for activism. They had my full name on the news. I felt like I had made it big!

Then the rumors started. The media had its own spin. Suddenly commentators on the news were like, “Maybe it wasn’t a protest, maybe these girls were just immoral and showing off, not even covering their hair,” and stuff like that. I cried for a couple of days, because it was a little overwhelming, the whole exposure.

The experience of getting arrested, and then the media spin that maybe we were just prostitutes or something, it was crazy, and I decided to write about it all on a personal blog. So I wrote about this online and then someone from Hamas’s Ministry of Information e-mailed me and said, “It’s insane what you wrote. It’s biased.” This guy with the ministry said he would go to the website and start leaving comments if I didn’t take down the post—Abeer’s not a professional journalist, you shouldn’t hire her, and stuff like that. It was my first run-in with Hamas over my writing. It was a little intimidating, but since then I’ve learned better how to deal with the government.

MY ONLY FEAR WAS ABOUT MAKING DEADLINES

I chose journalism as a career, which is not a very acceptable job for a girl here in Gaza. After I started working, some of my own relatives started to say bad things about me—my uncles and cousins would talk. And they were always pushing on my parents, like, “This is not the way Abeer should be, and everyone’s going to talk about her, that she goes around talking with guys alone.” Some of my cousins, they’d say things like, “This is the bitch who goes with guys all the way.” My parents could have reached a point where they’d say, “Enough. Just stay at home and don’t do anything because everyone is talking about you, and we know you are not doing something bad, but it’s our reputation at the end of the day.” But my family didn’t have that reaction. No.

Slowly, my parents began to trust me with travel, with my work. I was getting assignments for web stories for outlets like the Egyptian Independent. Basically, eyes-on-the-ground sorts of stories about what was happening in Gaza. At first, I might get an assignment that would mean I’d have to travel to Rafah crossing, and my parents would be like, “Make sure you have a driver. We’re worried.”12 And they didn’t want me to leave Gaza City. But the more they saw that I could take care of myself, that nothing happened, the more they trusted me.

I also got some work as a researcher and fixer for Human Rights Watch. For my work with HRW, I got a chance to get out of Gaza and go to Jerusalem for the first time in early 2012. I got a pass from Israel to be in Jerusalem for eight days. When I went to Jerusalem, I was sure it was a dream. So I kept waiting for the moment I would wake up and find myself in bed. And then an hour passed, two hours, three hours, four hours, and I was slapping my cheek, like I should wake up. Then when the night came, and I slept, and then woke up again and I opened the window and it was Jerusalem—I was sure it wasn’t a dream. I went to East Jerusalem, and I was seeing other parts of my homeland for the first time.

I had a friend from HRW in Jerusalem, and she took me for a ride. She wouldn’t tell me where we were going, but we kept driving up and up. Suddenly, out my window I saw the Dome of the Rock.13 I started screaming like an idiot. This was an image that I saw on posters or framed pictures in every house in Gaza when I was growing up, on all my school notebooks. And here it was, right in front of me.

But being in Jerusalem was a strange experience. One amazing thing was that other Palestinians in Jerusalem were seeing a Gazan for the first time. I remember going into a hotel in East Jerusalem. I wanted to tell everyone I met I was from Gaza, and I talked to the receptionist at the hotel—a Palestinian man. He was shocked. Then he made a dumb joke and asked me if I had any bombs in my pockets or something like that. Then the next day I got to take a bus ride to Ramallah, and I made small talk with a man on the bus who was from Bethlehem. When I told him I was from Gaza, he was as surprised as the receptionist. He said something like, “No way you’re from Gaza, you’re cute and smart!” The trip out of Gaza was really eye-opening for me.

IT WAS GOOD THAT I STAYED HOME

In 2012, I got a scholarship to go to Sweden for six months. My father wasn’t ready for me to travel that far yet. He was worried. So he wouldn’t let me go, and I cried for days. But it was good that I stayed home, because it led to one of my first big breaks.

During the first Israeli strike on Gaza, I was still doing my training, so I was reading news all the time. But in the second strike, in November 2012, I was already a professional journalist, so it was a bit different.14 By this time I was only focusing on how to get news. My only fears were about making deadlines.

I used to go out into the street immediately after the air strike happened. I got used to seeing bodies: corpses lifted out from under the rubble. I would go into the hospital as well.¹⁵ In the hospital, I was always watching the entrance. And cars would speed in so fast after a strike. Everyone outside would scream to back up, to give the arriving passengers more space. And I’d stay in my spot, watching women, and then men, and then children, and then old women—people of all ages and all different backgrounds—come in with all sorts of injuries from the air strikes.

And during the strikes I would be outside my home most of the day, and I even slept outside my home. The strike lasted eight days, and then afterward, I thought, I was under the rockets and I didn’t even cry. It was the most important phase in my life, because I wrote for the biggest newspapers in the world, and I used to have my voice on international radio. I was turning in reporting for the Guardian in the UK and Al Jazeera. Ha’aretz in Israel hired me, because they weren’t legally permitted to send journalists to Gaza to cover the strikes. I thought, This is my real start.

And after, I felt like I had all of these experiences to deal with, all of these feelings, but I didn’t have time to even think about what I’d seen. It was insane. I felt like I needed a break just to process what happened, but there was no time. I got a lot of new opportunities to cover stories about the aftermath of the strikes, and there was just no chance to get away. I wanted to do something for the Palestinian cause itself, and I wanted to be a journalist, and I knew Gaza was the best place for me to be a journalist. But it was hard to keep working here without a break.

HEY, IT’S NOT ROCKETS ALL OVER GAZA

I’m studying again at the Islamic University of Gaza, where I got my B.A. in English Literature. I’m studying Hebrew because I want to learn a third language besides Arabic and English. There’s nothing much I hope to do with Hebrew. I just want to speak the language and listen to Israeli news and Hebrew news, because some of what comes out of Israel is better news, when it comes to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Honestly, you’re more likely to hear the truth from a few of the good Israeli sources than from Hamas sources. After my work for Ha’aretz, Hamas announced that Gazan journalists would no longer be allowed to work for Israeli media. I contacted them to ask why, and they told me I better just go along with the ban without complaining. I said, “I would understand if you stopped Israeli or American journalists who are totally pro-Israeli. I would understand if you banned them from working here. But I don’t understand when you ban me, as a Palestinian who works for Israeli media—which I actually consider a kind of resistance.” It was my pleasure just to sit down with a laptop and just write things to the Israeli audience. It was a kind of resistance, addressing the Israeli community and being credible at the same time. I would say exactly what’s going on and convince the Israelis of how misled they are about Gaza by most of Israeli media.

But people around the world have the wrong idea about Gaza, not just Israelis. My mission in life is to destroy the stereotypical image about Palestinians in the media, so I keep taking photos of things that people don’t think exist in Gaza. This is what I do in my news, and my reports, and my feature stories. In my Facebook and in my Instagram. So when I take photos, I try to take photos of girls without hijab, or young girls wearing shorts and stuff like that. And the beach. Hundreds, thousands, going to the beach just to swim, thinking of nothing. No fucking occupation, no fucking Hamas, nothing! They just want to have fun. I go to the market, take photos of mannequins with short dresses. And it’s something normal to see a young girl with hijab, but I would try to avoid catching photos of her, because Western people in Europe and America, they already know about these people, and they are not my concern. I would rather focus on the type of people Western media never heard about. I also take photos all the time of fancy hotels and fancy restaurants—like hey, it’s not rockets all over Gaza. We have cafés, restaurants, clubs, gyms, whatever you can think of. So this is my main mission.

I would love everyone—not only in the U.S.—to know that Gaza is not Afghanistan. We have educated people and people who have nothing to do with the ongoing clashes. They should give themselves the chance to see the picture from outside and stop having this preconception when it comes to Gaza, because we have everything here, and the Western media always intend to prove the preconceptions people have. They would see that for most of the people, they are harmed by what’s going on rather than being a part of it.

The thing is that I’m an Arabic-speaking journalist who writes in English, not my mother tongue. If I write in my mother tongue, then I will be addressing Palestinians themselves. And why would I address Palestinians themselves? Palestinians know that they were occupied, and they know their rights, they know their duties, they know everything. I’m writing in a second language, so I need to use that, because few international writers come regularly to Gaza. Usually, these people come with a preconception, the preconception of what they hear. And they come to prove what they have in mind, not to rectify it.

Still, being a Gazan journalist is not always easy. Every time I write something sensitive, I keep my phone with me because I’m waiting for someone to call me from the government offices in Gaza. I’m strong enough to face it. Every time I write something sensitive, I read the story ten times because I attribute every controversial quote to someone who actually said it, not anonymous sources, so I won’t be accused of making it up. So even though I like to cover daily life in some of my work, I also want to uncover what’s really happening in Gaza. I don’t think you are doing anything unless you are risking something. I’m not going to consider myself a real journalist if I’m just covering the openings of new shopping malls in Gaza City.

With time, my relationship with the government has become fine. I have good relations with the government members and ministers and everything. I think they decided, Sure, that Abeer is a journalist who talks a lot, but she never makes up stories. It’s true that I write about the government, but it’s true also that I write about the Israeli occupation. There is a big difference if you are focusing only on Hamas or on Israel or the Palestinian Authority. I write everything. But it’s not my fault if the Hamas government commits five human rights violations in a row and I write about the five violations.

I DO STUFF THAT GIRLS HERE DON’T USUALLY DO

To help cope, I try to live a non-traditional Gaza life as much as that’s possible. I wake up in the morning, go to the gym, hang out with friends, spend the night out. Now I’m applying for a swimming class. I do stuff that the girls here don’t usually do. I’m learning a third language, just because I want to stay as busy as possible. Also because I don’t want to feel the occupation is limiting things I can do. I’m busy 24/7, but that doesn’t mean that I’m working 24/7. I have some specific hours of work and specific hours of fun—sport, swimming, hanging out, sleeping. But I never had a time of thinking, I can’t do anything.

I feel like my society does not accept me, but I always say, “It’s their problem, not mine.” I pray for them—that they will have enough awareness and education to understand what I’m trying to do. Society wants me to get married when I’m twenty years old and wake up at six a.m., cleaning, and serving my men. This is not the life I want to live.

There is a word that means “against the feminine.” Patriarchy. I hate it, and I feel like I’m totally opposing this idea in my life. I want to prove that I can do whatever men can do. And I can do it better than many of them. I see men looking at me, but I don’t give a shit because me being a girl doesn’t mean that if you look at me, I’m a bad girl. No. If you look at me, then it’s your problem. You have a problem with controlling your desire. Then I go to do my work in places that are usually occupied with men, and when I enter, everyone’s like, “You can’t be here because you’re the only girl.” And I’m like, “So what? Does it mean that you will all rape me? Because I’m the only girl here?” You know, this is the main obstacle in my life. I’m here now just because I want to prove to myself I can go out at a late time and go back home, and no one will ever talk to me or do anything bad to me, because my brothers do it and they know no one will make trouble for them.

IF PALESTINE WASN’T OCCUPIED, EVERYONE WOULD WANT TO VISIT

I always say, if Palestine weren’t occupied, then everyone would want to visit. I’ve been to the West Bank, and it’s like a heaven. They have everything—mountains, hills, deserts, ancient cities. In Gaza we have the sea and a beautiful beach. But Palestine is this small besieged territory, and even the residents here can’t move around freely. All of this powerlessness over movement leaves Palestinians feeling very dependent on other countries, as though we can’t be independent.

I belong to this place for many reasons, because I was raised here. The apartment where I was born is my grandfather’s family house. And my family is originally from Gaza, so I do belong to this place. And I love it. I love everything about it.

I’m a journalist, and I want to have my name get bigger and bigger. I will never have a better place than Palestine in general to achieve this dream. I would love to leave Gaza for a month a year, just to explore around. Just to meet new people, to make new relationships, and work on improving my writing. I would like to do assignments abroad. Like if I can be sent to Turkey or Egypt, I would love to do that. But I’ll always return to Gaza. I’ll never live outside this country. Never.

Starting with reports of bombing on July 8 2014, Abeer covered the invasion of Gaza for Ha’aretz, Los Angeles Times, New York Daily News, +972 Magazine, BuzzFeed, as well as through social media outlets such as Twitter and Instagram. Abeer investigated the shelling of UN schools, visited the morgues, and wrote a passionate open letter to Israeli citizens that was published in Ha’aretz. She posted on social media on August 3 that she had just woken up from her first night of sleep in over three weeks.

1 In 2006, Hamas won parliamentary elections in Gaza and largely took control of the government through democratic means. However, in June 2007, Hamas clashed with the Palestinian Authority, and its leading party, Fatah, in a series of armed confrontations. Following the armed conflict, Fatah and the Palestinian Authority withdrew from Gaza. For more information, see Appendix I, page 295.

² Gaza City is the largest city in the Gaza Strip. It has over 515,000 residents. The First Intifada was an uprising throughout the West Bank and Gaza against Israeli military occupation. It began in December 1987 and lasted until 1993. Intifada in Arabic means “to shake off.” For more information, see Appendix I, page 295.

³ Eid Al-Fitr and Eid Al-Adha are the two major feast days of Islam. Palestinian custom is to purchase new clothing for the feast days, when family members exchange visits.

⁴ In 2000, there were seventeen Israeli settlements in Gaza and a little over 6,200 settlers.

⁵ The hijab is a garment that covers the head and neck and is worn by many Muslim women throughout the world.

⁶ In 2005, Israel announced a unilateral withdrawal plan from the Gaza Strip. For more information, see Appendix I, page 295.

⁷ The Islamic University of Gaza is an independent university system in Gaza City. It serves just under 20,000 undergraduates.

⁸ Gilad Shalit was an Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) soldier who was kidnapped in Israel in June 2006 by Gazan militias affiliated with Hamas. He was released as part of a prisoner swap in October 2011.

⁹ Human Rights Watch is a non-profit organization based in the U.S. that investigates human rights abuses around the world. HRW conducts fact-finding missions with the help of journalists, lawyers, academics, and other experts.

¹⁰ The strikes on Gaza in 2008 lasted around three weeks, from December 27, 2008, until a cease-fire on January 18, 2009. The invasion was named Operation Cast Lead by the Israeli military. For more information, see the Glossary, page 295.

¹¹ In January of 2011, millions of protesters throughout Egypt gathered to demand the ouster of Egypt’s president, Hosni Mubarak, who had been in power for three decades.

¹² The Rafah border crossing is the sole border crossing from Gaza into Egypt, and since Israel imposed a blockade on Gaza in 2007, the Rafah crossing is often Gazans’ only accessible point of exit from the Gaza Strip. The crossing is often closed as well, however, and since 2007 it is very difficult for Gazans to leave the Gaza Strip.

¹³ For more information on the Dome of the Rock, see the Glossary, page 304.

¹⁴ Operation Pillar of Defense was an eight-day assault by the Israeli military starting November 14, 2012. For more information, see the Glossary, page 304.

¹⁵ Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza City is the largest medical facility in Gaza.