Welcome to That’s What I Do, an occasional series about cool people in interesting jobs, being all cool and interesting and the like.

I first met Samaher at a barbecue in rural southwest France last summer. The sun was splitting the stones, the patio hummed with music and laughter. In the distance, a medieval village perched on a hill surrounded by vineyards that produced the wine in our glasses. As the meat sizzled on the grill and our kids played in the pool, we felt a collective satisfaction, perhaps a quiet smugness, with the lives we had created for ourselves. A convenient bubble, miles away from the horrors unfolding on our screens – if we chose to watch. A bunch of middle-class anglophones, we’d left our native countries for various reasons. Some of us were seeking, some escaping. We all wore our connection to home lightly, confident in the knowledge we were free to return at any time.

I was wrapped in a keffiyeh and holding forth on world affairs when my friend Diana introduced me to a Palestinian filmmaker, who moved to France from Cairo with her family around the same time we emigrated. I was immediately awkward in Samaher’s company. It’s one thing to shite on like you have the first clue about complex geopolitics. It’s another when complex geopolitics is standing in front of you, flesh and bone, shaped by the decisions of those holding all the cards. I decided to do what we Irish do best when confronted with uncomfortable realities. I mumbled some version of, ‘Sorry for your troubles’ and moved the conversation on, complimenting the English woman standing beside me on her homemade hummus - it was very authentic.

A few drinks in and determined to redeem myself, I approached Samaher, who was sitting alone in a shady corner of the garden. It struck me how self-contained she was, her brow furrowed in concentration as she rolled a cigarette. We got talking about Palestine. Samaher was happy to talk about Palestine, she wanted to get into it. How the rolling countryside around us reminded her of her homeland. The grief of it all, oppression and domination. Like grief, people don’t know what to say around you, so they say nothing. The loneliness of that.

She told me she was born in al-Jalazone, a refugee camp north of Ramallah, moving to the city with her family when she was 10. She was 22 when she left home for the first time, relocating to Cairo to study at the prestigious Higher Institute of Cinema.

We talked about her work. Her 2021 documentary, As I Want, explores sexual violence and harassment against women in Egypt. In the feature-length film, she takes to the streets with her camera, using it as a weapon after her friend is assaulted during the 2011 protests on Tahrir Square. It’s a difficult watch. Samaher is verbally abused, told she’s going to hell, that her body is shameful. Along with many Egyptian women revolting against the Mubarak regime, she starts carrying a knife to protect herself.

She showed me footage from the documentary she’s currently working on, a mediation on exile and isolation. The year after October 7th, she visits her sister, in the West Bank. As they embrace, IDF soldiers rush past, chasing Palestinian children, gunfire the soundtrack to their reunion.

This conversation won’t be for everyone, and that’s okay. You came here for the lols, not the politics. I get that. But I try to be as authentic as possible on here and much as I enjoy writing about my homegrown artichokes and the time I queefed during a yoga class, I’m also into exploring global power dynamics and hearing from marginalised voices. Don’t worry - normal service will resume soon.

You might also have issues around impartiality. Where’s the Israeli take in all this? I say what writer and journalist Ta-Nehisi Coates offered in response to criticism over his recently published collection of essays, The Message. ‘There’s no shortage of that perspective in the Western media.’

Let’s get into it.

What am I looking at? (Samaher takes out a map of Southwest Asia and North Africa.)

I need to show you if I am to explain. Maps are very important. This is the ‘Middle East’ - that’s a colonial word. Lebanon, Syria, Jordan. All of this is Palestine, which has been slowly eaten. I can’t go to Gaza as a Palestinian. I can’t go to Jerusalem. I have to pay tax to enter Jericho from the Jordianian border. I have to cross the border of three countries and pay tax for each fucking country to get into my own country. I am a refugee from Palestine to Palestine.

How are you holding up? (We’re speaking days after the US Tomahawk missile strike on an Iranian girls’ school.)

I’ve been a black hole these past two years. This world is either driving you to be crazy or to obey the agenda and stay in the system or to kill yourself because none of it makes any sense. But because I have two children, I have to stand on my feet and put a distance between me and what’s going on back home.

And who is gaining isn’t even the Western people, whose money and taxes are going towards killing people in other countries. It’s individual billionaires and the Zionists. They want the Israeli flag from the Nile to the Euphrates.

What’s your response to the suggestion that the US is liberating women from the tyranny of the Iranian regime?

They’re worried about women being treated badly in Iran, but they don’t mind killing 168 schoolgirls? And what about the mothers in Gaza who are grieving, dying, starving? What about their rights? This is the narrative the West keeps pushing. That they are liberating women. How can any fucking person with a brain think liberation can come from oppression and war? Does Saudi Arabia have the right to tell France, ‘You’re not dealing with the Gilet jaunes the right way, so we’re going to invade you’?

Lately, I’ve been struggling with my feminism, which seems more about protecting capital and power these days than securing rights for women globally. I’m sorry, but I really don’t care if multi-millionaire Jennifer Lawrence is paid less than her male co-star when mothers in Gaza can’t feed their babies. Then you’ve Hillary Clinton supporting the anti-hijab protests in Iran, yet refusing to call for a ceasefire. It’s depressing.

The West likes to talk about women’s rights and Islam. Look what they do to women in their own countries. Look at Epstein. Yes, we have problems in the Arab world, but do you know how many women are killed in France alone due to domestic violence? (There are more than three femicides or attempted femicides in France every day. Meanwhile, 98 per cent of women in my native Northern Ireland have experienced at least one form of violence or abuse in their lifetime, making it one of the most dangerous places in Europe to be a woman.)

You know what happened when I screened my film in Paris and Berlin? Girls came up to me to say we need more women like you because this is happening in every city all over the world. You can’t walk the streets alone at night wearing a skirt, you can’t be yourself. You are an object. Your job is to create children, to take care of your husband, to do the work of the family and to shut up. It’s everywhere, not just in the Muslim world.

What do you say to those who claim antisemitism is the reason Gaza has commanded our attention over other conflicts, such as Sudan?

I laugh when people call me an anti-semite. I am a Semite. I can’t be anti myself. The Israelis say this to avoid responsibility for what they’ve been doing. If one positive thing comes from all this it’s that Palestine is already free because she has opened the eyes of the whole world.

How did your family come to live in a refugee camp?

My father’s village was destroyed in the Naska. (The expulsion of Palestinians from West Bank, eastern Jerusalem and Gaza during the 1967 war.) My mum’s village was destroyed in ‘48, in the Nakba. My father’s family fled and stayed in the mountains for three months until they settled in al-Jalazone, where I was born.

It was hell. The First Intifada started in ‘88. I was 8 years old. The Palestinian fighters would throw rocks and Molotovs and they’d land on the house. The Israelis would throw tear gas, it landed on the house. My mum sent my brothers to my grandmother’s house because the Israelis would lift all the children off the streets from age of 16. They used to take my father. They would come at 2 o’ clock in the morning. Wake us all up and take the men with their hands behind their heads and make them sit like that in the school all night.

I have other memories, too. My friends, my mum hanging the laundry, gathering flowers. But mostly, it was a suffering. Once, we spent 42 days under curfew. One day, my father came with a truck and said we’re leaving the camp and going to Ramallah.

Why did you decide to leave Palestine?

I wanted to experience life. In Palestine, we have warmth, kindness, generosity. We have culture and tradition, just like in Egypt. But we also have the occupation and the misery of daily life, and I wanted to know what life was like without this.

My brother and my mother didn’t want me to go. They were trying to focre me to marry because that’s what you did. I got engaged three times and managed to get out of it each time. I was the black sheep. I didn’t imagine myself having children at 17, 18 or even 20. Even 35 for me was too young. I’m so happy to have my beautiful children, but I was 30 when I became a mother. For my family, that’s really late.

What were your dreams when you were younger?

My dreams were simple. I wanted a house with stairs. I come from a family of nine children. Five boys and four girls. In the refugee camp, I had to share a bed with my sisters and one brother on a mattress on the ground. There was no space for anything.

Was your family religious?

They were traditional, but not really religious. My father never did Ramadan, he never went to the mosque. My mother used to pray to God to protect her children, but that was it. Wearing the veil wasn’t something I had to do. It was actually me who decided to cover myself when I was 12 and I stayed veiled until I was 19. I think I am always drawn in a different direction to everyone else. My mum didn’t like it. She said nobody is going to look at you when you look like an old woman.

Did your mum and brother come round eventually?

I missed my first year of university in Egypt because they stopped me from leaving. My father didn’t want any of his daughters to get married. Everybody was against him. They told him he wasn’t a real man. He was modern, open-minded, educated in his head. He read a lot of books. He watched a lot of films. He is aware of what’s going on in the world and supported my decision.

At that time, I had a good position in the Ministry of Culture, working with artists, writers and journalists. It changed my life. My brother is a nurse and it happened that he was taking my boss’s sick mother back and forth to the hospital. So my boss got involved. He came to the house and asked my brother and mother why they were stopping me from going. ‘Look at her, she is going to fly and make all of you proud,’ he said. It was my brother who took me to the airport in the end.

What gave you the idea for your first documentary? Did life in Egypt change for women after the Arab Spring?

It wasn’t a spring, it was autumn. I did not choose to make this film. I think the situation choose me. One of my best friends was assaulted on Tahir Square. In any conflict in the world, the first to be targeted are the women and children. Look at Gaza. Because this is how they weaken the uprising. I felt very angry. I was participating in the street and then when I looked at the footage I saw something remarkable. We had the revolution against the regime, but then we had the women’s revolution against both the regime and the men. That was so strong, so inspiring. It was three years of non-stop filming.

In the film, you’re constantly approached by men and women criticising you over your refusal to cover up. At one stage, a man threatens to hit you when you’re out with your son. Were you worried about your personal safety?

I think I am naturally badass. I used to wear my shorts to house parties. I don’t know where it comes from. Since my childhood, I’m like that. I argue, I don’t listen. I remember my neighbours telling my mum I’m loud. They used to call me hambu, meaning I get angry very quickly. I think it has to do with my character and also where I grew up. I can’t stand injustice. I can’t stand something I’m not convinced with. Just because you said so I’m not going to do it.

I’m not sure how much this is right or wrong or acceptable or not. I love to argue because there is something to argue about. If you convince me then I won’t argue.

So I’m walking in the street and I’m wearing my shorts. And if it’s not something you would do, I respect you. Just leave me the fuck alone. After the assaults on Tahrir Square, I was outraged. Women like myself started getting together, practising self defence.

There’s a bar in downtown Cairo where my friends and I would meet without calling each other. I went with my friend who was assaulted. It was the first time she was out after the attack. I could see she was not my friend anymore. She was someone else. I remember the waiter coming up to me to say my T-shirt had risen and he could see my back. I looked at him and said, ‘And? It’s my back.’ We didn’t spend ten minuets in the place. I had to take my friend home. She couldn't look at men anymore, couldn't be around people. After the assaults, I was always with my camera. I had a mission to hunt the harassers. When that man attacked me with my son, of course I was afraid. My whole body was shaking. But you get to a stage where you don’t give a shit anymore.

After the birth of my second son, I started to question what it meant to be a woman. It is us who get pregnant, us who breastfeed. Is this the world we’re going to live in? I looked at my son and thought, ‘Are you going to grow up and oppress me?’ I was going crazy. I was not well.

Your mum died when you were filming As I Want. Did losing her and becoming a mother change your understanding of your relationship?

It had a big impact on the way I think. Being pregnant and losing her, thinking about where I come from and how I was educated, how I’m going to educate my children and how I ended up where I am, this was a big painful thing inside me.

I understand my mother better now. My childhood was violent from both the occupation and from my family as well. She wasn’t an easy mum. She was difficult, especially with me. This is why I think she wanted to see me before she left, but I couldn’t make it back in time because of borders and checkpoints. Now, when I think of her, I know I take a lot of things from my mum. She came from a conservative family. I think if she had been born in a different environment she would have been an artist like me.

We were with her in the market. The IDF raided the place with tear gas and started shooting. It was a big mess. I saw my mum coming from the smoke, there was blood everywhere. She was very lucky. The bullet skimmed her head.

If there was a child on the street when the Israelis would come, she’d say it was her son. She was the boss in the house. She was good at standing up for her rights, but she liked boys more than girls. She thought girls were trouble until you die. It’s a fear and this fear comes from the way we’ve been raised. The idea that a woman can’t survive without a man. If she grows and doesn’t marry, it’s a problem. If she marries and has children, it’s a problem. If she has children and doesn’t have more children, it’s a problem. If she gets divorced, it’s a disaster.

How important is creativity to you? Does it help you make sense of the world?

The creative life is happiness. When you create, you liberate. Especially if you create something you want to make without the expectation of what this thing is and where it’s going to take you. I don’t think I could survive without creation. The moment I’m losing my passion for creation, I’m a person you don’t want to meet. I feel there’s no need to continue. I make my films, I write my stories. This is how we can connect. It’s joyful even if it’s a sad story you’re creating.

After October 7th and the genocide, there was no meaning in creation for me. What could fucking art do to make us continue this world?

It makes us see the little light in the crack.

You live in relative isolation in the French countryside. How do you cope with your family thousands of miles away?

I talk to the trees, the sunset, the moonlight. I ask nature what the fuck I am doing here. What is happening to this world? Why do we have to arrive at this point of violence and bloodshed? Why did I choose to live in a country that is a coloniser? The world I’m trying to fit into has calm and beauty, and the world I come from is burning, and it’s burning because of this world. Sometimes, the hypocrisy, it hits too deep.

If you enjoyed my conversation with Samaher, check out other articles in this series, including interviews with psychotherapist Rob Lefort and contemporary artist Ces McCully