But in a place where few women even swim, Rawand’s adolescent reasoning carries complicated consequences. Since Hamas took control of the territory in 2007, the militant group has been working to inculcate conservative Islam in an already traditional society. As a result, the daughters of the strip’s male surf community must navigate ever more treacherous waters.

“Our society is different than others, there’s no way the girls can surf on a crowded day,” says their surfing teacher, Al-Hindi Ashour. “To their parents they are still kids, but some people here look at them like adult females already … They may say things about them in the future.”

Rawand’s cousin Shurouk Abu Ghanem is also 13. On land, she wears a hijab, the Muslim head scarf. In the water, Shurouk stuffs her long brown curls into a cap.

All of the girls surf clothed from head to foot. They prefer to practice in groups of other surfers and swimmers (their male cousins, brothers, and fathers), reasoning that the more people in the water, the less likely that anyone on shore will notice girls on a board.

“I’m not doing anything wrong. No one has the right to say anything to my daughters or me. But in the end, I can’t live outside the traditions of my society. There are limits to where we can have our freedoms here,” Rajab, Shurouk’s father, tells me.

So the girls and their parents agree—they won’t be able to surf after they turn 17. “Doing something only boys do means I’m unique. I’ll go to another hobby—that’s the way it works here,” Rawand says. “But I will have the same confidence. I won’t change.”

Early the next morning, we enter the water en masse. Nine surfers share three boards. A phalanx of pint-size boys accompanies us on boogie boards, forming an army of attention-deflectors moving through the water together.

Next to me, Rawand squints, gulps air, and pushes her board down, surfacing on the other side of a wave. Nearby, Shurouk swims through the surf. We line up.

It’s my turn on a windsurf board sans sail. And I’m up, adrenaline pumping, as I struggle to keep my balance in three layers of wet clothing (undergarments, a tank top tucked into spandex tights, and then a long-sleeved shirt and hiking pants on top of that). I have to bail to avoid the boogie-boarding boys—the downside of our protective detail—but it’s enough. I’m the first adult woman anyone here has seen surf, and the pack beams in unison when I rejoin them.

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