The first time I heard about Israel was in Beirut, and about a plate of sardines. I was six, Israel was two.
The plate of sardines was sitting on the table of the filmmaker's aunt in Beirut. She was angry at the fish, symbols of the port where her husband had been working since they both had to leave Palestine. Time dissipated her anger.
On the Golan Heights, the ruins of Quneitra, destroyed by the Israeli army, a cinema in ruins, a filmmaker friend from the city (Mohammad Malas) and the vision of families shouting messages to each other through megaphones interposed on either side of a barbed wire line: images of a past that painfully fills the minds of those separated by the Israeli-Syrian border.
