Um Zaher has a small house in a modest walled lot in Garara, in the central Gaza Strip. Several similar houses cluster around a dirt road; beyond lie agricultural fields with tidy rows of eggplants and chile peppers growing under the blazing summer sun. Inside the gate, a haven of green: figs and pomegranates, hibiscus and palms grow thick around the house. Chickens scratch in the shade of a grapevine. And there is Um Zaher: vital, energetic, commanding, overseeing every detail of her tiny domain with almost uncanny efficiency. Immediately after greeting us and while still making small talk, she hoists herself into the fig tree to pick burstingly sweet fruit to eat with our tea.
