But I can’t help but wonder – where were the other storytellers? They did not have to speak on behalf of Palestinians, but did they not want to help amplify their voices? I found those filmmakers in rooms, talking about resistance, and glorifying revolution, but not acting with intent or integrity. I realised that not everyone was afforded that life, and that many artists could not voluntarily join a movement for months or years on end. But I knew many that could, and who mourned the loss and destruction, but did not use their weapons to resist it. 

If we are people of change, then just as we must use our time on this earth in service of others, we must also use our skills. Our skills are tools of resistance if we use them with purpose. As storytellers, the camera is a weapon.

I was raised in so-called Australia from parents who fled the Israeli invasions of Lebanon in the 1970’s and 1980’s. National and international cinema that reflected my people mostly told stories of war, terrorism, drugs, and crime. Nadine Labaki’s ‘Caramel’ was the fi rst film I watched that centered on straight and queer romance and comedy. The cinematography was playful. The characters were lovable. The writing was poetic. It explored sex, racism, religion, feminism, menopause, misogyny, and friendship, all rolled into one ball of melted sugar. As a 20-year-old, the excitement consumed me, knowing that audiences worldwide were seeing something different from Lebanon, maybe for the first time in their lives.

But part of that excitement came as a consequence of growing up in a racist society, and desperately wanting to humanise our lives through relatable stories that would eradicate people’s fear of us. I wanted to shift perceptions – to counteract the prejudice and hatred that so many films had already fed into the hearts and minds of millions.

As a filmmaker in the diaspora, I’ve tried to balance those two layered realities. My communities are not voiceless. We are not two-dimensional. We are human. We are not responsible for changing anyone’s mind. But as storytellers, why not help shape a better world? It starts from decolonising our minds, lenses, and laptops.
Years ago, I pivoted from traditional media to social media, but not because I wanted to. It was because I knew how important stories from marginalised communities would play in that space. I believed that we need filmmakers and responsible storytellers to feed the algorithm with truth. I could see an autonomous space for political, visual, and cultural resistance that most grant bodies would reject in a mainstream setting. It meant we could finally control our own narratives, without the red tape of those who had long kept our stories silent.

And then Israel’s genocide of Gaza began. I saw that once again, it was Palestinians on the ground, and those in Gaza who were being targeted for their journalism and storytelling, that were doing the work in handing us that truth, often costing them their lives. Meanwhile, I saw the people that I once respected as journalists or filmmakers were silent. Trying to counteract that, I dove into short form harder than ever before, volunteering with the Freedom Flotilla Coalition media team to help raise awareness of Israel’s chokehold of Gaza and international governments that had paved the way for its relentless genocide. Slowly, I watched the world “wake up”. Slowly, I watched Western and European countries realise that they were not free themselves. The camera, or the smartphone, was a weapon of resistance – the one tool rebuilding the world’s distorted image of Palestinians, particularly of Muslim men.

But I can’t help but wonder – where were the other storytellers? They did not have to speak on behalf of Palestinians, but did they not want to help amplify their voices? I found those filmmakers in rooms, talking about resistance, and glorifying revolution, but not acting with intent or integrity. I realised that not everyone was afforded that life, and that many artists could not voluntarily join a movement for months or years on end. But I knew many that could, and who mourned the loss and destruction, but did not use their weapons to resist it.

Filmmakers, funders, programmers, and festivals – the stories of those facing the deepest injustice are not decoration or indulgence. They are calls to conscience. Our work, our platforms, and our budgets shape the stories that reach the light. Integrity, humanity, and purpose are worth more than comfort or prestige. The images we choose to tell, and the ones we choose to ignore, build the world we live in. Our grants and platforms are tools that can either reinforce oppression or help dismantle it. The camera is a weapon. How we choose to use it will outlive us.