What drives you to tell stories about Palestinians living in Israel?
I tell stories that come from my own reality, as a Palestinian of 1948. These are the lives and experiences I grew up with, shaped by a complicated political and social context that’s often overlooked. There’s a constant tension between visibility and erasure, and I try to explore that in quiet, personal ways through my work. At the same time, it’s important for me to be critical, not just of the Israeli state and its oppressive systems, but also of problems within our own society. I’m not trying to make big statements or polished arguments. I just want to tell stories that feel honest and highlight contradictions, silences, and inherited fears that often go unquestioned in our communities.
Did you notice any difference in how Palestinians and Israelis received your film?
When we screened the film recently in Jaffa, my hometown, Palestinians focused mainly on the Palestinian story, as we're rarely depicted in cinema outside stereotypes. From the Israeli side, I haven’t received much feedback yet, but I expect some discomfort or resistance. It’s rare for Israelis to be portrayed critically by a Palestinian filmmaker. Usually, it’s Palestinians who are shown in a biased or reductive way in Israeli films. But that’s not what I’m doing. I’m not interested in flipping the bias. I’m holding up a mirror, showing Israeli society as I see it—with complexity and honesty. I want Israeli viewers to reflect on how their values, beliefs, and sense of right and wrong have been shaped, often without being questioned. If the film unsettles them in a way that leads to deeper thinking, then it’s serving its purpose.
What kind of responses did it provoke in the audiences?
Many people responded to the film’s realism and emotional tone. They were particularly struck by the non-actors, with some saying it felt like they weren’t watching a performance at all, but something real. That honesty in the acting helped the story land in a more personal way. Some were surprised by how familiar and uncomfortable certain scenes felt, especially those reflecting subtle forms of control, fear, or silence within everyday family dynamics. At the first screening at Alfilm, a woman from Haifa said, “This is us.” That simple reaction meant a lot. Another viewer mentioned it was the first time she’d seen a Palestinian film that truly enters Israeli society from the inside, offering a perspective rarely shown.
When did you first realize that you are "trapped in a flawed system?"
It happened when I started questioning what I was expected to accept without thought, like traditions, routines, and the unspoken rules about how things should be done. There were all these inherited expectations about how to live, behave, and think. None of it was ever discussed; it was just passed down as if there were no other way.
I began to feel this more clearly through small, everyday moments. Music, for example. Everyone around me listened to the same artists. I didn’t dislike them, but when I started exploring other genres, people reacted with confusion or discomfort—“Why are you listening to that?” or “What does it mean?” Suddenly, I was seen as odd for stepping outside what was familiar. That’s when I began to understand that the system isn’t just about external rules, it’s about internalizing specific values to maintain control. It rewards conformity and makes anything unfamiliar feel like a threat. That felt flawed to me. This is not because tradition has no value, but because it often leaves no room for individual expression.
Do you have a particular memory from that time?
I remember a moment at school that stayed with me. There was a quiet kid, a Russian boy who mostly kept to himself, always walking around with his Walkman. One day, I asked what he was listening to. At first, he said, "I don't know." When I pressed, he finally said, "You wouldn't like it." That stuck with me. Why did he assume that? What did he think I expected from him, and what did he expect from me?
His hesitation wasn't just about music. Maybe he was afraid I'd judge him for his taste, or perhaps he had already judged me and assumed I wouldn't understand. It showed me how even something as personal as taste in music is shaped by the quiet pressure of the unspoken rules about what's normal, acceptable, or worth sharing.
I told him I wanted to hear it, and eventually he handed me his headphones. It was punk music, Dead Kennedys, to be precise. The sound was loud, raw, and intense. The lyrics were uncomfortable but thought-provoking. They called out authority, exposed hypocrisy, and challenged blind conformity with sarcasm, anger, and urgency.
I got curious and started exploring more music with a social and political voice. That's when people around me began to raise eyebrows: "Why are you into this?" "What does it mean?" "Should we be worried?". These reactions made me realize how quickly others respond when you step outside what's familiar or expected.
Was it something that carried into your later years?
Yes, it definitely carried into my later years, but it wasn’t something I acted on right away. I understood early on that certain expectations were shaping my decisions, but for a long time, I mostly followed the path that was expected of me. I told myself it made sense, that it was good for me. That’s how pressure works. It doesn’t always feel like pressure. It disguises itself as logic, comfort, even happiness. You convince yourself that staying within the system is your own choice. That’s why I chose engineering when I started university at 23. It gave me structure. Math and physics had clear rules, clear answers. It didn’t matter if you were Palestinian or Chinese; you were supposed to arrive at the same conclusion. That simplicity felt like security. But after four years, I started to feel disconnected. I realized that none of my studies had anything to do with my identity or how I experienced the world. That tension stayed with me, and eventually, I had to face it.
How did that realization shape your life choices?
After graduating, I left my comfort zone and worked as a cook and waiter. What was difficult wasn’t the job itself, but dealing with how others perceived that choice. I had studied engineering at the top university in the country, and becoming a cook didn’t match what people expected of someone with my “status.”
But learning to sit with the discomfort of being judged changed me. It freed me from the pressure to live by someone else’s definition of success, and that’s when things really began to open up. During that time, I made my first short film, The Truth. It is about the social construction of reality: What is reality? What are we trained to perceive, and who benefits from it? And then I went on to work on Ajami.
How did your Christian background play into this? Did it influence your perspective or contribute to your feeling like an outsider in any way?
My Christian background also shaped how I relate to faith, values, and authority. I went to a Catholic school, but faith there often felt like indoctrination. Questions weren’t encouraged and were often seen as a form of rebellion. It didn’t make me feel like an outsider, though, because my surroundings were largely secular and multi-religious, and religion wasn’t something that came up much in everyday life other than in religion classes.
One clear influence from Christianity is the narrative structure I use in both Ajami and Happy Holidays. The idea of telling a story from multiple perspectives came from the New Testament, where four different people recount the story of Jesus. Each version overlaps, contradicts, or reveals something new. That always fascinated me. It showed me that truth depends on where you’re standing, and that idea has stayed with me as a core narrative principle in both films.
Why did you put the focus on female characters in your film?
The idea for Happy Holidays started when I overheard a female relative say to her son, "Don't ever let a woman tell you what to do," referring to his wife. That moment stuck with me, not because it was extreme, but because it was so ordinary. It led me to explore how internalized oppression works and how it helps maintain patriarchy through beliefs passed down by those who are themselves affected by it. I was interested in exploring how that kind of thinking takes root, how it's normalized, and how it quietly shapes relationships and identities.
That exploration naturally led me to focus on female characters. Their experiences revealed the deeper emotional and social layers of this system. I wanted to show how all forms of oppression are connected. You can't seek freedom from political oppression while upholding patriarchal values at home. No one is truly free until everyone is free, and that belief is central to why this story had to be told through mostly female characters.
Is Hanan’s character, the mother, meant to represent a stereotypical Palestinian mother, or does she embody traits recognizable in both Palestinian and Israeli mothers? Were you aiming to create a figure that resonates across both communities?
Stereotypes reduce people to one-dimensional roles. In the Palestinian context, they often serve political agendas, portraying us as either victims or threats, while ignoring our emotional depth and the diversity within our communities. This tendency shows up in cinema too, where characters are often framed as archetypes or symbols. That’s something I actively question in the film. Also, the fear some people have of being misrepresented often comes from the same mindset, the belief that there’s a single “correct” way to represent Palestinians. But that idea is limiting. It treats identity as something fixed, instead of fluid and personal. I’m interested in breaking away from that way of thinking.
With Hanan, I wasn’t trying to create a “typical” Palestinian mother or someone who represents a group. I wanted to portray her as a multi-dimensional person, shaped by her own history, contradictions, and emotional complexity. Because the film is critical, it was important to me that Palestinian viewers, especially women like Hanan, could see themselves in her without feeling judged or blamed. My goal was to make her feel human and relatable, not reduce her to a type.
It sounds like the character of Hanan, the mother, is more complex than just a “villain.” Could you elaborate on that?
Yes, absolutely. Hanan isn't a villain. She is heartbroken and afraid. Her actions come from a place of protection. She believes she's doing what's best for her daughter, even if it causes pain. The film doesn't judge her but shows how people navigate a system that punishes them for stepping outside what's acceptable. Hanan didn't create that system, but she's learned to survive in it. Her way of protecting her daughter is shaped by fear and experience, and that's where the tension lies. The story isn't about heroes or villains. Fifi, the daughter, in some ways, could be seen as the story's heroine for resisting that structure, but it's not about a simple hierarchy. The film explores the emotional cost of both upholding and challenging what's expected.
Who is Fifi to you? What was your inspiration behind her?
Fifi represents the generation caught between inherited expectations and the desire to break free. She’s not entirely outside the system but pushing against it. That tension was central to her character. Many young Palestinian women are making choices that challenge traditional norms, especially around relationships, sexual autonomy, independence, and visibility. But those choices are not always accepted. Often, the older generation avoids confronting these changes, waiting for the “real test,” which is marriage. If the husband doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind, the issue is considered resolved. It’s not really about what the daughter did, but how others perceive her actions. In the film, that easy way out doesn’t exist, and the family is forced to face the situation directly and openly.
Fifi’s world reflects a real social shift. Many young people live away from their families, studying, working, or trying to build a life independently. Yet they still carry the weight of expectations from home. This creates tension: freedom exists, but it’s fragile and conditional. In Fifi’s case, it leads to a double life, trying to balance personal choices with the fear of judgment. The ending of the film carries some optimism. It points to the possibility of Fifi claiming her own path, regardless of who approves. That spirit is what inspired her character.
I was actually really surprised by the fact that you don’t hand out scripts and all the actresses and actors are non-professionals. Why did you choose this approach?
I think I just like the authenticity of it. I want actors to listen to each other in my films, to react with their hearts, not just recite lines they’ve memorized. I admire some professionals, but I’m mostly inspired by documentary films. I love rawness, and I’m drawn to what’s imperfect. In reality, we never say exactly what we mean. Our words are shaped by power dynamics, hierarchies, fears, and objectives. That’s something you can capture when you improvise. People aren’t always articulate; they overlap when they’re angry. And that’s how life is—imperfect and messy. I’m not interested in clean, perfect dialogue. I’m interested in human beings, in real reactions and re-reactions. That’s the method that works for me.
During the Q&A at the AlFilm Festival, you mentioned that Shirley’s story—losing her unborn baby due to a gynecologist who claims the heart stopped beating to prevent her from giving birth to a child that's half Arab—is based on real events. Did you come across this story in the news, or was it something someone shared with you personally?
I don’t need to point to a single source for that story, as we’ve been witnessing this reality unfold daily for over 15 months. Acts of cruelty and indifference toward Palestinians are constantly justified and normalized. What makes these actions possible isn’t just politics; it’s a mindset built on moral superiority and the dehumanization of Palestinians and Arabs in general. That’s what the film tries to expose. It’s not about isolated “bad people.” It’s about a system that teaches people, even unconsciously, that certain lives are worth less. That same logic is what allows a gynecologist in the film to deny a woman’s right to give birth to a child because he’s half Arab. It’s the same logic that allows the genocide in Gaza to be accepted, allowed, and even defended. I didn’t include this story for shock value. I’m not trying to make a film that people simply like. I included it because film is the only way I know to give weight to what too many people would rather not see.
Walid’s character starts with a beautiful love story with Fifi, but he undergoes a significant transformation, when he learns that she is pregnant with their baby. Where did the idea to portray such a male character come from?
The idea for Walid's character came from observing how many men navigate between modern relationships and deeply internalized patriarchal values. He starts off open and loving, but when he learns about Fifi's past, those values resurface. His reaction isn't personal, it's social. He shifts not because he stops loving her, but because he feels his role, his masculinity, is being challenged. We all carry unexamined beliefs that shape how we react when something crosses a line we've been taught not to accept. For Walid, this is about control, pride, and fear of being judged by others and himself. It's easier to conform than to question those values, especially when social expectations reinforce them constantly.
What was your intention behind that using mostly close-ups in your film?
To capture the suffocating existence that people endure. They're essentially trapped in boxes they've built for themselves. The close-up shots, for me, tire the audience and create a sense of being unable to breathe. The only time we get some relief is when Fifi walks away in the final scene. You can see that at the beginning, Fifi's life in Jerusalem is depicted in a wider frame. But as the film progresses, the space becomes more constricted, reflecting her growing sense of being trapped. It becomes increasingly claustrophobic until the final scene, which opens up again. That was the intention behind the shot composition.
The scene during Memorial Day that you’ve just mentioned, with Fifi walking through the siren—it’s one of the most sacred days for Israelis. How difficult was it to shoot that?
Part of my approach is placing actors into real situations and working with what’s actually happening around us. That scene was one example. We planned it during the national Memorial Day siren, those two minutes when everything stops, and people are expected to stand still in remembrance of Israeli soldiers killed in past wars. It’s an imposed stillness, enforced by a loud siren that takes over the public space. But it also carries a national narrative that excludes Palestinians. It erases our collective memory, especially the Nakba and everything that followed. Manar Shehab, who plays Fifi, felt strongly about walking through it, both as herself and as the character, not as a provocation, but as an act of quiet resistance. It was a way to reclaim not only physical space, but also existence and emotional presence in a moment that systematically ignores us. We only had one chance to shoot it. We filmed the final dialogue between Fifi and Walid earlier that morning, then prepared for the siren. When it started, I told her, “Just go.” About 15 crew members were positioned nearby, including two just outside the frame to make sure she was safe. We had a backup plan in case anything went wrong, but she did it. Once it was done, a car picked her up, and we packed up immediately.
It sounds like an intense moment. It must have been really tense for the crew, knowing the risks involved.
Absolutely. But the urgency and rawness of the moment were important for the film. We made it work. And yes, we had the backup plan, but we didn’t need it. It worked out.
Do you have any new film projects in the works?
I’m currently working on an animated documentary called A Childhood, focusing on child imprisonment in the West Bank. I began working on it back in 2018, but had to pause it to focus on Happy Holiday. Now, I’ve got more time to revisit it. The project uses mobile phone footage and reenactments of testimonies from children who have been released from Israeli prisons. It’s a tough topic, and the project is going to take time to finish.
