What does it mean to live in a society divided not only by politics and concrete walls, but also by expectations, fears, and inherited silence? Happy Holidays, the latest film by Palestinian director Scandar Copti, doesn’t ask viewers to simply empathize with that experience, it immerses them in it. It forces us to sit through until the end, even as we’re about to burst with rage, because the film evokes emotions so intense they border on physical pain. It makes us feel the anger, helplessness, and grief up close in order to reflect on the systems—both intimate and institutional—that perpetuate division.
Told in interwoven chapters, each from a different perspective, Happy Holidays sketches the agonizing ties of a Palestinian family and their social circle living in Israel. It’s not a story of villains and victims, but of people trapped in expectations—societal, generational, and internalized.
The film opens with the entire family gathered at a hospital after Fifi (Manar Shehab), one of the daughters, has a car accident. The circumstances leading to it are gradually revealed, as Fifi is entangled in a web of lies, trying to protect herself from the shame and judgment of her family and community.
From there, the narrative unfolds chapter by chapter, introducing family members and associates in detail—starting with Fifi’s brother Rami (Toufic Danial) in Chapter One. Amid legal issues with the family business, the core of his story lies in his reaction upon discovering that his Jewish girlfriend Shirley (Shani Dahari) refuses to have an abortion.
But perhaps the most compelling chapter is that of Fifi herself. A young woman trying to lead a modern, self-determined life in Haifa, she works, parties alongside Israeli peers, and sleeps with men she likes—all under the radar, knowing her choices would be disapproved of by the people she cares about. In an interview with Rawy for Alfilm Festival, (Full Interview: https://www.rawyfilms.com/magazine/copti-interview ) Copti reflects on the genesis of Fifi’s character:
“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.“
Manar Shehab delivers a remarkable performance, all the more impressive given that she, like the rest of the cast, is not a professional actress. Copti’s decision to work exclusively with non-professionals is not a gimmick but a deliberate strategy in pursuit of authenticity. Each performer is drawn from the same world as the character they portray: the doctor is a practicing physician, the nurse an actual nurse. Instead of relying on scripted dialogue, the cast trained through intensive workshops, resulting in performances that feel disarmingly real. By rejecting a traditional screenplay in favor of improvisation, Copti captures raw, unpredictable moments that throb with immediacy. His method reveals what polished cinema rarely does: how real people hesitate, falter, and lash out under pressure.
“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.”
But this commitment to realism comes at a cost. When performers aren’t fully briefed on potentially triggering scenes ahead of time, it raises serious ethical questions about their psychological well-being. The boundary between performance and lived experience can blur, and that ambiguity—while powerful onscreen—can be emotionally taxing off it. It’s a moral tightrope, and one that Copti walks with intention. His goal isn’t provocation for its own sake, but an unflinching pursuit of authenticity, even when it means navigating the uncomfortable terrain where art and ethics collide.
While the dynamics of Palestinian society are central—patriarchy, generational tension, internalized control—Copti repeatedly insists in interviews that he portrays individuals, not symbols:
“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.“
And to a certain extent, he succeeds: characters like Fifi’s mother, Hanan, brought to life with an outstanding performance by Wafaa Aoun, are layered, tormented, and motivated not by cruelty but by a deep sense of desperation. Still, the film undeniably leans on familiar tropes. Many of its dramatic turns rest on recognizably “stereotypical” figures— the controlling mother, the shamed daughter—and in doing so, risks reinforcing the very clichés it claims to avoid. Nowhere is this tension more evident than in the character of Fifi. Despite being the emotional center of the film, she’s given little room for defiance or resistance. Her arc is marked more by resignation than rebellion, which undercuts the director’s stated aim of portraying nuanced, self-determined individuals. The contradiction between Copti’s intentions and the narrative choices is never fully resolved, and perhaps unintentionally, it reveals the difficulty of escaping the gravitational pull of the very structures he sets out to critique.
The film’s final chapter, ironically titled Happy Holidays, brings that complexity into sharp focus. Set during Israel’s Memorial Day, a moment regarded as sacred in the national narrative, we see Fifi walking away from Walid (Raed Burbara)—the man she loves, but who cannot accept her way of living—through a frozen crowd as the sirens wail. The act is quiet but explosively subversive. For Israelis, the day is solemn. For Palestinians, it is something to hide from. According to Copti some literally retreat to toilet stalls during the sirens to avoid confrontation or visibility. The title is bitterly ironic: this “holiday” is neither happy nor shared. It symbolizes parallel lives, clashing memories, and unresolved grief.
Happy Holidays is not an easy watch. But it is an essential one. Copti holds a mirror to Palestinian life in Israel, and what it reflects is not just cracked but fractured into competing truths, painful loyalties, and impossible choices. Its narrative structure, combined with predominantly close-up shots, emphasizes the inescapability and interconnectedness of the web in which everyone is entangled. The fences it examines aren’t only physical or political; they are etched into relationships, family expectations, and the internal conflicts of those trying to break free. Copti isn’t trying to comfort or offer neatly packaged arguments. Instead, he presents a raw, unsettling portrait shaped by lived experience—a work that critiques both external systems of oppression and internal societal constraints. Happy Holidays may be controversial and uncomfortable, and it certainly won’t appeal to everyone. But its refusal to please is what makes it urgent.
