Leaving for Gaza

Next week I will be leaving the occupied West Bank and will be heading south in attempts to enter the Gaza Strip. As most of the world knows, Gaza is an epicenter for the Palestinian struggle and is still trying to recover from the most recent war exactly one year ago. The ‘War on Gaza’ that happened last year was the event that pushed me to begin my work here in the occupied territories and it has been a very long and trying year. I would like to send my greatest thanks to those who have supported my work; your encouragement has kept up my spirits and led me to do great things.

The majority of my trip has been funded by myself (welcome to the life of an independent photojournalist) and for those who have donated to me and given financially support, I owe the greatest of debts. However, since my journey began nearly 3 months ago my money is staring to run low and is only continuing to dry up. The cost of travel and my work does take funds and this trip to Gaza is no easy task so I taking this time to reminding people that the my work as an independent can only be possible from supporters such as yourself.

If you are interested in donating or continuing your support please feel free to do so by clicking on the ‘Donate’ button. Every bit counts and there is NO donation that is to small! Please help support my work in Palestine and my future work in Gaza.

Toulkarem Refuge Camp

Posters and paintings of martyrs plaster almost every wall as you enter what is obviously Toulkarem refugee camp. Bullet holes and tank shells still paint the buildings from the 2nd Intifada. This camp holds around 25,000 people and is one of two camps outside of Toulkarem city. Streets are only slightly wider than shoulder width. Several families cram together and live in rooms as small as 14’ - 10’, which makes canned sardines look free range. Like refugee camps all over the world, there is no guarantee of safety or a future for its inhabitants. These are a few photographs of their life and the world they live in.


A building peppered with bullet holes from the 2nd Intifada.


A boy walks past a war torn wall.


The hand prints of a child smeared on an alley street.


A woman passes the day sitting on a street corner.

I Wonder...

Child martyr graves from the 2nd Intifada, Jenin refuge camp

*This was a personal e-mail that I wrote to a good friend of mine. She recommended that I post it and share with everyone.*

I am writing this to you now with numb fingers and toes from a dark room with no electricity and crumbling walls. The desert winter has struck and once again the sky is crying and screaming with the voice of thunderclaps. I have been in Palestine for 2 months now and I am exhausted both physically and mentally. My brain feels soft and my thoughts are less focused while my body stiffens and begins to weaken and deteriorate like a rock against an angry sea. The only thing that is keeping me going is what got me here in the first place, my heart. My heart continues to speak to me every day feeding my soul and renewing my passion for life and struggle. It has brought me here this far on this amazing journey and has made me into the person I am today (without sounding to egotistical... I believe I’m pretty amazing). 

When I left home everyone told me that I would see a new world and become a whole new person. At first I rejected these statements when I began my work here. In fact, at times, I even became a little angry with these comments. In my eyes I was the same person. I have always had an activist mind set, I have always followed my heart and it seemed like I was just the same amazing kid now with more experience. It has become clear to me now that I was wrong.

I never thought I would have done the things that I have done here. To accomplish so much, gain so little and be happy with that result. I never thought I would stand between a child and a soldier’s gun nor did I think that I would make the judgment calls that I have. The sounds of grenades go off around you, the snaps of pullets fly by in the air while people are running from the waves of tear gas. In front of you is a teenager lying on the ground in pain from the bullet that has entered his upper thigh... he tries to remain still and does not give the military the pleasure of hearing him scream out in agony while we are stuck behind rocks and trees taking cover. Your first instinct is to run out and help, but as soon as you make a move away from your cover the sounds of war blast you back and freeze your body. Your mind races as you evaluate all the possible variables that go into your safety. Then your heart  speaks clearly and overruns your mind. “Fuck it!” 

Once you clearly hear your heart, everything becomes so simple. Some times you just have to say “fuck it” and run out against their tanks and bullets. I hear the words of Steve Biko flow through my mind when he said “it is better to die for an idea that will live, than to live for an idea that will die”. I no longer have this lingering fear of death. When a soldiers lifts his gun all I can do is call him out and I only fear what will happen if we falter from action and let their hatred win. My heart speaks to me and again it is clear that their apartheid will never win. It might win battles but for them the war is already lost. Our love, determination and devotion to one another is stronger than any bomb and even though they may jail us, torture us or even kill us, it will never falter our sense of freedom.

But I must be honest... it is not always the uplifting fight that I am telling you about. The occupation is a master at physiological warfare and at times the crushing fear of isolation takes hold and you cant help wavering and wanting to quite. I often ponder how I ended up here. Where did my love come from? My passion? My courage? I wonder if things can ever go back to the way they were. How could they after so much evil has happened? I wonder if the air will ever glide cleanly again against the a  pure sea? I wonder if the land will ever recover what it has lost and reclaim the marks of humans? I wonder if the blood that has stained this land red can be recycled into something wonderful and peaceful. 

I wonder...