The Unforeseen Role of a Smartphone in Conflict
In the quiet of a Gaza City apartment, around 11 PM each night, 18-year-old Eman Lulu performs a ritual that, in isolation, might seem universally familiar: she hands her phone to her mother, Beirut, before bed. The device, now charged by solar panels installed by her father, Hussam, lies beside Beirut's pillow, switched to silent, as the family conserves their limited power supply. For a few hours, the world's gaze into Gaza, channeled through Eman's social media, dims.
This nightly routine, however, carries a weight far beyond typical teenage phone negotiations. While governments worldwide debate the appropriate age for social media access and parental concerns about digital dangers are widespread, Eman's phone has become an indispensable lifeline and a window for millions into the realities of life in Gaza. This transformation is particularly poignant given her mother's initial staunch opposition to Eman owning a personal device or engaging with social media.
A Mother's Evolving Perspective
Beirut, 43, once firmly believed in shielding her daughter from the perceived perils of the internet. "A hundred percent right," she would say, advocating for strict parental oversight, even for older teenagers. Her apprehension stemmed from concerns about online blackmail, privacy breaches, and the potential for negative social interactions, especially for young women. "I was completely against it, absolutely against it... I was against sharing her picture on Facebook, period," she recounts, reflecting on her pre-conflict stance. She feared the unknown elements within the digital realm and the vulnerability they presented to adolescents.
Eman, a self-described stubborn individual, understood her mother's protective instincts. Prior to the recent conflict, the family rule was clear: no personal phone until she finished secondary school and turned 18. For schoolwork or communicating with friends during the COVID-19 pandemic, Eman would borrow her mother's phone, with Beirut vetting all content. This arrangement, while restrictive, was not uncommon in Gaza, where personal smartphone ownership among teenagers was less prevalent than in many other parts of the world, often depending on parental approval as much as financial means.
The Phone's Metamorphosis: From Restriction to Responsibility
The outbreak of conflict, however, fundamentally altered this dynamic. The device Eman now carries, and later hands back to her mother, is no longer merely a point of contention but a tool of survival and witness. As their 300-year-old home in Gaza's Old City was destroyed, and the family found themselves repeatedly fleeing military operations, the phone became a torch in darkness, a camera, a witness, a notebook, a map, an archive, a classroom, a newsroom, and, increasingly, a profound responsibility.
Beirut's perspective shifted dramatically. The mother who once forbade her daughter from having a phone now actively encouraged its use. "I wanted the world to see what was happening to us," Beirut explains, recalling the terror of their home being bombed and their desperate escape. "At that moment I wished the whole world could see what was happening." For Eman's 18th birthday, her parents even purchased a new iPhone 16, a tangible symbol of their changed outlook and the phone's new significance.
An Unplanned Ascent to Global Visibility
Eman's initial videos were simple documentations of daily life amidst destruction – fragments of an ordinary existence shattered by war. They garnered little attention at first. However, as international journalists faced restrictions in entering Gaza, millions worldwide began searching for authentic glimpses into the Strip. Eman's audience grew exponentially. A few thousand viewers became tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands, and eventually millions.
Reflecting on her sudden rise to prominence, Eman smiles, stating, "There was no clear plan behind the content. The ideas were already there, because it was just our life." She simply filmed her everyday experiences, sharing the realities of their situation. A video of Eman and her parents traversing Gaza on a donkey cart – a common mode of transport due to fuel shortages – unexpectedly went viral, propelling her follower count from thousands to over five million in a matter of weeks.
Unlike many online influencers who meticulously craft their content and strategies, Eman's visibility emerged organically from a global need for information. While debates elsewhere focus on protecting teenagers from algorithms and harmful content, Eman's experience raises a different, more profound question: what happens when a teenager becomes a primary documentarian of war, with millions relying on her to bear witness?
Bearing Witness and the Weight of Expectation
Eman found herself transformed overnight from a girl filming her daily life into one of the few people documenting events in northern Gaza. She received countless messages from displaced individuals in the south, pleading for her to film specific streets or landmarks to determine the fate of their homes. Journalists and news organizations also began to follow her work. Every vibration of her phone brought a new request to bear witness.
Gaza-based psychologist Faten Abu Odeh notes that for adolescents in the region, social media has evolved from a space for identity formation into a platform for documenting survival. With traditional avenues for growth and expression disrupted by conflict, online platforms have become crucial. "Social media has become a form of release during the war," Abu Odeh explains, "but the sudden exposure it brings can also overwhelm young people who are not prepared for the pressures of public attention." Eman navigates this immense responsibility, filming what she can safely access, understanding that her followers, living through the same conflict, grasp her limitations.
