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Let's see, what's the
capital city of Tanzania?

Dar Es Salaam.

Papua New Guinea?

Port Moresby.

Albania?

Tirana.

- Japan?
- Tokyo.

Mauritania?

Ouagadougou.

No, it's not. It's Nouakchott.

OK.

Armenia?

Yerevan.

Bolivia?

La Paz.

Iceland?

Reykjavik.

Pakistan?

Islamabad.

South Africa?

Joh...

No!
Ehmm... Pretoria.

Micronesia?

Ehmm...

No.
I don't know.

Palikir.

- Mexico?
- Mexico City.

More difficult.

Seychelles?

Victoria.

Laos?

Vientiane.

Gabon?

Libreville.

Kiribati?

South Tarawa

It was all set for me to major in History,
just like my father.

But it was a long major.
And I didn't feel like it.

It worked well with my cigarette,
food and coffee addiction.

But majoring in cinema did too,
and it was easier.

As I said,
my father had majored in History.

But he dedicated his
life to journalism.

My grandfather had been
a journalist as well.

But he dedicated most of his life
to the aerosol industry.

I don't know why.

Because of them,
I grew up surrounded by

newspapers and magazines
from all over the world.

And since I was 8, I had an atlas with
which I prematurely learned every capital.

A goal a true Granovsky had to accomplish.

Both of them made me
believe that the whole world

could fit inside a
newspaper or atlas pages.

And that I could get anywhere I wanted.

After majoring in cinema,
I became a film producer.

I got obsessed with seeking funding abroad,
and never in my own country.

But I never got any money,
neither in my country nor abroad.

In Argentina, some thought I was serious,
because I travelled.

And when I did,
people abroad thought it too.

My memory allowed me to
know the names of every film

producer and their present
and past productions.

They all thought I had
a lot of connections.

Khomeini's 1979 Iranian Revolution
generated a radical movement…

The closest I was to majoring in History,

was when I attended a few courses at the
Argentinean War Correspondents Association.

War was a spectacle
I consumed in all of its forms.

Even though I had never been to one.

The teacher did.

But sometimes, it seemed as if she based
her classes on Wikipedia information.

Like myself.

During the 90's, the paper
where my father works, Pagina/12

delivered once a week an amazing
title of historic-political cinema

L'Armata Brancaleone;
Brancaleone alle crociate;

Pasqualino Settebellezze;
I compagni;

Mimi Metalurgico; La clase operaia
va in paradiso; La grande guerra...

My favourite was another one...

"In a country reigned
by a corrupted democracy,

where the state uses its police and army
to eradicate any left wing threat,

an opposition member of
parliament is murdered.

A young magistrate takes
over the investigation,

and in the meantime an
ambitious journalist

accumulates proof using unorthodox methods.

1969. “Z”, by Costa-Gavras.

A film producer would never trascend.

A legitimate Granovky had to direct.

One of my attempts was to
direct a documentary on the

everyday life of the peshmergas
in the Iraqi Kurdistan.

Well...

Those are not kurds.

They are Mendocinos.

And...
No.

That's not Kurdistan.

Is Mendoza.
In west Argentina.

It's believed that in that area, the Inca
Empire ended and the Mapuche Kingdom began.

I couldn't stand for
the lie I was creating.

And I asked to be killed.

That was my third unfinished film.

The first one was a fiction about
ETA members that ceased fire.

I hadn't done enough research,
so the script was implausible.

As the shooting began
I decided to cancel everything.

The second one was a fiction film as well,

in which two unemployed
Aphrodite and Hephaestus

got to Brazil to offer their
services to the Underworld Regent:

Michel Temer.

It was plausible, but we run out of
budget by the 4th day of shooting.

To regain the money I had
lost at the Iraqi Kurdistan,

I travelled through Latin America with
my father for a research he was doing.

He was writing a book on the NO to the ALCA
(Free Trade of Americas)

But just like me, he didn't finish it.

Interviews got confirmed
from one day to the next.

I checked my phone every hour, just like a
correspondent waiting for his next war.

We flew, we did what we had to do,
and then we flew back.

The shortest the journey was,
the more important it all seemed.

My father's Interviewed were his idols.

And his idols...

were my idols.

Mobiles completely off!

Hey Celso,
It's corrected.

Go!
Father and son!

Stay there!
Let's take father and son!

That's my son.

Now without the father.

In spite of my family and
friends' recommendations,

I didn't go back
to Buenos Aires.

Without my father's permission I took part
of his budget and stayed in São Paulo,

just when protests for and against
Dilma began to arouse.

I was in Santiago during the protests
for the nationalisation of education.

In Buenos Aires, I didn't support it.

It is an elemental way
of protesting.

But if there are millions,...
I mean millions... It is essential.

When I was out of the country I did it,

like when you choose the
same café in a strange

city to have breakfast
and disguise as a local.

In their bar.

Well, these were “my protests”.

My domestic front line.

I also used part of the
budget to buy a ticket for

my girlfriend Sofía,
for her to join me there.

Although short after that, Sofía left me.

Even though I found it heroic,

she'd got tired of my enormous plans,
always involving traveling,

and never taking care of
the local routine of our relationship.

I had to recover my father's budget
by working for an English journalist

that wanted to go over Buenos Aires'
shantytowns for his TV show.

I offered him to direct and produce it
for the same price,

and gather footage for myself.

My fourth film:
A documentary about journalists.

Being my father's son, I wouldn't
have plausible issues.

Being my mother's son,
I wouldn't have money ones.

Action!

Good one! Can we do another one?

Your camera here…close shot.

You... The camera goes here…
Close shot.

- A bit over there.
- This way or...?

No, always look at the main camera, ok?
She'll shoot from both sides.

- Ok?
- Yes.

- Perfect.

So...

Adam, the English journalist,
had been to Argentina several times,

but he had never been to a shantytown.

Nobody else knew it,
but I hadn't either.

India.

U.S., I don't know...
20 times, or maybe more.

New York, Washington.

Algeria.

China.

Hong Kong. China Beijing. Popular China
or rather People's Republic of China.

Cuba. Brazil, tens of times.

Uruguay. Chile. Germany.

I was the first journalist
to be invited to the

U.K after the 90's
normalization of relations.

France. European Union as an entity.

Spain.

Mexico. Venezuela. Bolivia.

A lot.

And… No wars?
Ever?

No, no wars.

Why?

Because the paper had people
in Europe to cover them…

and it wasn't necessary
to travel from Argentina.

So I never had the chance to decide
if Iwould cover one or not.

I guess I would have said "Yes".

For pride even.
And to overcome the fear.

Or maybe not. I don't know, but it's
irrelevant because I never had the chance.

The closest thing to a
War that I covered was

the “Carapintadas”
uprisings in Argentina.

Or the Coping of “La
Tablada” regiment in 1989.

That helps to understand what a journalist
should feel like when covering a war.

On a small scale.

Why?
Were you afraid?

Because I was scared,
because I didn't know where to stand…

Because if you don't have the experience,
you don't know where the front-line is.

Correspondents have to know where it is.

Even if it isn't a 13th century infantry
battle, there's always a front-line

Except for some places.

Syria today for instance,
where to stand in Syria right?

OK...

So, my father had never
been to a War.

I thought he did.

We'd just done an entire
trip through Latin

America and I didn't even
think to ask him that.

When I was young and went
to the airport to say goodbye

I thought he was travelling to remote
and dangerous places, like an adventurer.

The truth is that since
1980 he'd spent most

of his time travelling
on presidential planes

for a few days and then he came back.

He was an international affairs journalist,
not a war correspondent.

My imagination would just flow off.

[TALES HEARD DURING CHILDHOOD] E.
Salgari's

Sandokan; H.
Sienkewicz's In Desert and Wilderness;

There's nothing as tasty as the sponteneous
food in the battlefront.

Maybe in another opportunity, right?
That was a diplomatic peace mission.

So what?
Isn't that a front?

- No! No way.
- Yes, it is.

No, we're gonna
have to start all over again.

An Intifada, yes...
When we were in Egypt, yes...

I mean to stand up, to run a risk,
otherwise it's not a battlefront.

I find it strange that someone like
you that's a justice hero has become…

Well... Well...
In this...

It's weird.
Very weird...

- Are you comfortable at the newspaper?
- Yeah, I'm OK.

- Sure?

Yes...
And I believe you, huh...

Cut it out...
Do you miss it?

- Um, no.
- Him, I mean.

- Who? Him?
- Yes, him!

Yes, every night. I get home and light
candles on a frame I have of his and I say

“My dear Claudio, where shall you be…”.

I'm thankful though,
having run into a cynic on

the day I start wondering
if I'm a bad person.

I'm failing, and have no sense of humanity.

The cynic, the moralizing machine of
every battlefront. There you have it.

For me, those were international affairs
journalists and war correspondents

that casually met at the airport
and went to grab a bit to a barbecue.

Are you calling me cynical?

But...

We'll be there in less
than 10 minutes, right?

Yes, if there's no traffic
we'll get there in no time.

My father took advantage of my film
to get closer to me.

It was that, or our family pleasure
for someone to admire us.

…you are always in tension…

And that's a good thing.
And enjoying it.

Your tension and transmitting what you see.
Your report, your look.

Each one of us has their own
way of looking. It's a lie

that one theorizes about
everything and the world.

The more books you have
read the better, but

no one can take you
out the common sense.

It's global, wherever you are
there's common sense.

There're people.
There're stories.

“La Plata”, “Almagro”, “Tristán Suarez”,
“General Rodriguez”, “Ramos Mejia"...

Every district is different.

You watch the sunset,
you have to tell that it is the sunset.

And you have to surprise yourself.
If not, change your profession.

If you're not curious
and you don't get surprised,

What do you travel for?
What do you write for?

I'd even ask:
what do you live for?

On January 7th 2015,
two members of the Yemeni Al-Qaeda

forced their way into the
headquarters of satirical

newspaper Charlie Hebdo
and murdered 12 people.

A week later, I left for Paris.

My mother loaned me the money.

My father put me in touch with Febbro
The Correspondent, his adventurer friend.

It was the right time to continue
my film about journalists.

What do you remember
from those first experiences?

Your corporal experience
with those conflicts.

First there's a contrast
between the idea one has

of it and the one you
get when you're there.

That's what I remember.

Then, who's covering an armed
conflict can't judge people involved.

Otherwise you don't go to a war.

If you have moral, Christian, Muslim
or Buddhist notions on right and wrong,

That's useless for wars.

Putting that aside and having
in front of you or your camera

or your microphone a murderer
and not judge him as such,

but as a political actor to avoid conflict.
That amazed me.

Also, there's a human
loneliness feeling the

people living surrounded
those conflicts have.

Even for the ones that actively participate
in them, a feeling of total abandonment.

They pay a high price for that.

And as always,
a distant and terrible relationship.

Humanly distant and politically terrible,

between geopolitics
and the reality people live in, of course.

And... where were you?
Central America, Middle East…

Central America, Middle
East, Rwanda, Afghanistan,

Pakistan, Iran, and Chechnya,
Colombia several times,

Mexico, pretty much
every big and small conflicts.

In China, when Hong Kong
became independent.

Which are also armed
conflicts because people

die at them.
Anyway, the list is long.

I started in Latin America
when the geopolitical

proposal of its
democratic countries

imposed to armed conflicts, and peace
treaties grew, like Esquipulas I and II,

for which Oscar Arias won
a Nobel Prize for Costa Rica.

As it's usual in Latin American politics,
it became more mob like than anything else.

That's when I grew interest for other
conflicts, like the Middle East conflicts,

and so for nearly two decades I covered

almost exclusively
Middle Eastern conflicts.

So, after two months after the attacks of

2nd of... 7th of January

here in France,
in Charlie Hebdo's local office

I got the date wrong.

Let's go again…

Sorry, I got the date wrong.

We're recording.

So, after two months
since the attacks of January 7th

here in France,
in Charlie Hebdo's local office

seventeen person were killed,

shot in cold blood by
religious fundamentalists.

The consequences for the politics in
France and in Europe are very important.

Which are the solutions?
Repressive? Safety?

François Hollande's politics
seem not to be supported at all

by French people and even less
by the international community.

So, National Front seems
to propose a solution

in finding a common enemy, and this could
be an answer to national identity issues,

trending topics nowadays in France.

Valérie Castro was a journalist
major at SciencesPo.

She was smart, beautiful...
and just like me, news broadcast junkie.

She had worked with Febbro The
Correspondent producing his journeys.

When she told me how
much it saddened her

that she had yet to
travel outside of Europe,

my tough soviet face
softened with tenderness.

I had a crush on Valérie.

Febbro The Correspondent tried to get me
great interviews with his colleagues,

but I was on nobody's
agenda, obviously.

Besides, things were cooling down
in Paris and that bored me.

But I had Valérie,

talking to me about Front
National, Sarkozy, ISIS,

and Boko Haram with so
much passion and wisdom

I love listening to girls talking politics.

Just like my cinematographic attempts,

the fiction I had built about
Valérie never came true.

I did nothing...

...and I vanished.

The journey about the
journalists had to go on

and luckily Febbro The Correspondent
got me a job for a magazine.

Argentina had reached
the World's Cup Final

and I had to interview a star player.

The star only accepted if the
journalist was Argentinean.

And I would earn €800 that
would come in handy.

The first question that came
into my mind yesterday…

How do you go through
the differences between

Naples and Paris?
As cities…

Which are very different European cities.
The people, the society...

I mean, how is it?

How did you feel the difference
when you got here?

Well, I noticed a big change
because in Naples I couldn't

go out much,
I was basically at home all the time.

Places were always the same,
and people didn't give me a break, but…

It's completely different here.

I didn't know how to guide
the interview with the star.

I pictured asking him about
the club owners he played in.

When I called my dad to tell him I had
unsuccessfully interviewed Pocho Lavezzi

he lectured me and through
many disapproval silences:

“The answers are
responsibility of the

journalist,
not of the interviewed”, he said.

Febbro's friends didn't want the interview,
so I didn't get the money.

I felt challenged by my own
ineptitude to interview.

I had to go on.

Go to the front.

Go to war.

And Febbro's stories gave
me the courage I needed.

[Febbro The Correspondent once said]

"You have to be brave, but not reckless.
The reckless ones die.

Journalist who flees or is preserved,
serves for another War."

[ Baby! You still have the dollars I
gave you? Or have you spent everything?

I found lots of charges on Visa and Amex.

So many restaurants?
Can't you eat in the street?

If someone steals them from you,
report it immediately!

Please let me know. If not I'll be worried.
I love you a lot, son. Mom.

How is the Santiago airport called?

Comodoro Arturo Merino Benítez.

Kiev?

Boryspil.

Tehran?

Imam Khomeini.

- Havana?
- José Martí.

Bucharest?

No idea.

- Henri Coandă.
- Okay.

Quito?

Mariscal Sucre.

- Madrid?
- Barajas.

No, Adolfo Suárez.

The nearest conflict was the Basque one,

and the most accessible
for my inexperience.

I went to meet those ETA members
I hadn't researched for my first film.

Aitor Balboa was my guide
during the first days,

chasing the hidings of those who
used white masks with eagle eyes.

March 30th 1992
Francisco Mugica Garmendia, AKA Pakito

Captured in a marginal neighborhood
of Bidart in Lapurdi.

February 22nd 2001 - Francisco Javier
García Gaztelu, AKA Txapote

Captured during lunch at the Havana Café
of Sables d'Or in Nafarroa Beherea.

October 3rd 2004
María Soledad Iparraguirre, AKA Anboto

Captured in a house of
Salis-de-Béarn in Zuberoa.

But... never had an ETA member
hid in a forest cave.

Terrorists weren't fairy tale elves.

My hipster imaginary of
the end of the world, which

didn't know terror,
was playing a bad turn on me.

Al-Qaeda doesn't hide on a
Pakistani meadow.

IRA wasn't below the Cliffs of Moher.

Those were guerrillas.
This was different.

I continued without Aitor,
who wouldn't stop mocking me.

I met with the
Basque/Spanish translator

Febbro used when covering
the Basque Country.

She had also been his fixer,

someone a correspondent hires
to be a local contact during a war.

Juncal climbed the
stairways towards the San

Juan de Gaztelugatxe's
chapel every Saturday.

What is the meaning in doing this?

I do it because this is
a sort of sanctuary, right?

I hope someone will hear my prayer,
which is that my land be free.

Where does your family come from?

From every part of the Basque Country.

Alava, Biscay, Gipuzkoa, Alava...
Navarre.

Is Navarre considered part
of the Basque Country?

What's the difference?

There's a country,
a land where Basque is

spoken so that belongs
to the Basque Country.

Unlike the guide, Aitor, Juncal,
the translator didn't mock me.

The fact that she respected me
and, above all,

helped me get in
touch with ETA members

made me develop
a sort of crush on her.

Coming back from
Gaztelugatxe, I went with her

to a cider bar in her
hometown of Biscay.

I tried to kiss her.

She turned her face.

I was taken in for the
first time in 1979. For 3

months, which is
practically a joke for many.

Some of my friends were locked in for
10, 15, 20, 25, 30 years.

Some being active and some that have
been years inside and were then absolved.

After those 3 months in 1979, they couldn't
prove anything and my case was dismissed.

Nobody paid me for those prejudices.

And then I was taken in again in
1994, and it was the

same story all over again,
nobody could prove anything.

What was the charge for?

“Armed group member.”

It was surrealistic, really. In one
of the summaries I was charged

for having San Ignacio's Anthem, which had
in its lyrics the phrase “Gure patroi eta.”

The word “ETA” is in
the anthem's lyrics,

which was in fact born
from a military order,

but charging me, as an ETA military group
member for that, was absurd.

Everything was a good excuse to put you in
jail. Many times the cases were dismissed.

They couldn't prove anything
and you were free to go.

And that's everyday life for most sons
of the people of the Basque Country.

So…Rikar Loredo had
supposedly been a member of ETA.

And he had supposedly been
in jail for that.

According to him, for having
San Ignacio de Loyola's anthem.

Arnaldo Otegui, the former leader
of the prohibited party of Batasuna,

the biggest in Basque
independence movement,

would have been a
good interviewed.

Maybe the best, even.

Otegui served, from Logroño's jail,
as the Secretary-General of the new party.

“Sortu”,

that means "to arise"
in Basque.

[Genealogy of Basque Parties]

There's a theory of
"everything is ETA” that

puts any dissident
militant inclined person

as a member of ETA,
and therefore can be put into

jail under the charge
of “armed group member.”

Thus begins a judicial process
that orders by law that Batasuna,

the former left wing Abertzale
party, is a member of ETA.

Once there's a sentence
that certifies that, every

person considered to be
a member of the party,

is automatically linked as an ETA member.
So we are put into jail

under the charge
“armed group member”,

without having even
seen a gun in our lives.

Sortu's president,
Hasier Arraiz, was a

typical lucid, talkative...
and pleasant man.

But I had too much respect for him.

I didn't ask anything of importance,

of how he was taken in
for allegedly being an ETA

member, if he negotiated
with Spain and how.

I realised he was too
focused on Europe's situation

and didn't try to
take him out of there.

Nonetheless,
it was interesting hearing him talk

about the independence
movement in relation to

with Berlin,
Brussels and Madrid's decisions.

I should have stayed
longer with Hasier.

Or I should have gone to
Logroño and meet Otegui.

But I stayed in Donostia, the independence
movement's epicentre, where I met Joana,

a Portuguese film and television actress
that had travelled to Biarritz,

the French Basque Country, for an audition.

I didn't tell her I was a filmmaker.

I told her I was a war correspondent and
was going back from Lesbos to Buenos Aires.

When the beautiful Joana told me
she was from Coimbra,

I told her I wanted to
interview Portuguese people on

the economic crisis and
so I could go to her home.

Give me a bit of that joint...

[ Iván, Can you please
answer at least one email?

I'm still getting expenses
for my credit cards.

McDonald's in San Sebastian?
Weren't you in Paris? Answer me, please.

[ You won't make it for Babi's birthday,
right? Send some signals, Mommy. ]

"The permanent effects of austerity plans
are measured in terms of absences.

The 300.000 Portuguese who
emigrated, mostly

qualified young people,
will probably never return."

"No matter when the bailout ends,
it doesn't mean the reforms are over.

The exit from the bailout doesn't imply
any change in the economic policy."

"The left-wing destroyed us.
The right-wing too.

But at least we saw in the right-wing's
eyes that they wanted to destroy us."

When Joana found my notes she thought
my interviews in Coimbra were amateur like.

She googled me and saw
my father was a journalist and not me.

I didn't even have the courage to tell
her I was a film producer and director,

and I ran away.

[ Ivan, If I don't hear
back from you, I'll

cancel all the credit cards tomorrow.
Goodbye. ]

Febbro the Correspondent got me an
interview with Juan Carlos Monedero,

one of the Indignados
Movement's ideologists

and founder of
the party PODEMOS.

If I managed to sell it
to a Latin media, I could

carry on a bit longer and
actually go to Lesbos.

The biggest struggle against
neoliberalism is that it's common sense.

And to fight against that is like
fighting against desire.

And as long as you don't have an
alternative happiness project,

or utopia, or salvation it
will be difficult to fight it.

Neoliberalism promises endless consumerism
and if everything has become a commodity,

sex, friendship,
knowledge, food, housing...

Whoever has money can buy it all.

This dream of a promise
that makes one a king

can't be replaced only
with constant nagging.

And so the left wing becomes
apocalypse's prophets.

As long as the left wing doesn't
come up with an alternative

model, it can only provide
for short-term solutions.

And I believed that with short-terms
solutions we never finish building

the possibility of replacing
this common sense based

in consumerism in a common
sense based in new values.

Pierri, we need to get another interview.

Varoufakis.

No, impossible.

Jeremy Corbyn.

No.

Ségolène Royal?

No, she's outdated.

What about somebody from Austria?

Jörg Haider?

He died ages ago, Pierri.

The Queen Máxima Zorreguieta.

No.

Okay. Ehh...
Well, somebody easy to get.

Everything takes time,
it's not that easy.

Costa Gavras?

No, it has nothing to do with this.
Think somewhere in between.

I can't think of anything else.
And I don't even know what you want to do.

Okay, let's go back. That's it.

Good. I think this is the best
decision you made in a month.

Martín Caparrós?

No.

Martín Granovsky.

In 1989, the former leader of the People's
Revolutionary Army, Gorriarán Merlo,

along with 46
guerrillas, attacked and

occupied the Military
Regiment of “La Tablada"

to avoid an alleged new coup d'état.

Over 3000 police and soldiers
confronted them.

The occupation of “La Tablada” was the
closest to a war my father has been.

I was behind those buildings,
I left the car;

I was coming from the airport,

and I was called to cover the occupation of
“La Tablada” and its subsequent repression.

I left the car that way,
as I heard all the shooting,

and walked right through
the middle of the neighbourhood.

There was no other way of getting oriented
except for the sound of the shooting.

All that area was restricted by
military and police forces.

And I went to find the roundabout,
there was one there.

The headquarters stood
where that black grille is.

What used to be the headquarters
are now gas stations, malls, etc.

I knew where the entrance
was because the neighbours

had told me and I was guided
still by the shootings.

It's quite impressing really,
I remember thinking at

that time how weird it felt
knowing that a military

headquarter was just 15 minutes away
from downtown Buenos Aires.

Who were the enemies?
Argentineans were, but I

don't mean the occupation,
I mean in general.

That always impressed me.

When you saw a military
headquarter in Argentina you

could totally tell what
our history would be like.

Argentineans were the army's enemy,
there weren't external ones.

Cut!

- Look, that street is called “Ivanovsky”.
- Yeah.

I was nearly taken in on this street.

But... when?

That day.
A photographer from the paper saved me.

But who almost took you in?

Intelligence crew from
the police I suppose.

And why you?

For being a bearded man on the loose,
most who entered the regiment were as well.

In this street, now I remember.

And how was it?

I was walking that way and four men
got out of a car and detained me.

But you had your press credential, right?

Yes, but I didn't have time
to take it out and show it.

So you didn't have anything.

Yes, I had my credential,
the same one I have now.

So you showed it
and they couldn't care less.

- Where?
- There.

- Well.
- Watch it, there's a step there.

Move a little further.
Go further, you won't be able to…

- Go a little furher, no, but there's a-

- Is it too high?
- Yes.

You'll destroy the car.

What's too high?

Listen to me; just go
ahead three more feet.

- Now, the light it's green.
- Now.

Wait for me to tell you.

Now.

- In this place that's now…
- No!

Hey! Well!

Well, but tell me sooner.

Well, I told you to wait.

Ok, so you give the action.

No, I'll tell you when I'm ready.
You say action.

In this place, that's now all
covered it use to be a gas station,

we took shelter with the
journalist from all the firing.

It was pretty suicidal of us.

Because it was absolutely crazy
to do so having fuel tanks so close.

But we did what we had to do.
There was a phone here,

and I called the paper from here,
I called a Brazilian paper, too.

- And could you cross the street or not?
- I couldn't, but I did… I crossed it.

Let's go. Come on quickly,
the light's going to change

On this shelters, on the pavement…

Come on, come on.

We took shelter from the
shootings with this pavement.

We got there and stuck our heads to it.

So if we were shot,
at least we wouldn't to the head.

I'm not sure if it was helpful or not,
but that's what we did by instinct.

We would come and go,
over and over again.

The regiment was occupied
to generate a popular

revolt,
which was completely delirious.

And they resumed it with the army as
if it was a combat with another army.

The head of police said that he would
have ended the conflict by using tear gas.

Months after saying that
he mysteriously died in his office.

Supposedly of asthma.

Until that time,
everything indicated that “La

Tablada” would be the closest
I'd be to a war as well.

And it was nothing more that
a person's memory.

And that person wasn't me.

If there actually was a
front-line, it seemed

to get farther and
farther away from me.

Brazil, Chile, Venezuela, Monaco, Germany,
France, Basque Country, Spain, Portugal...

A lot...

And nothing.

Russian, Lio told me that you ask him
for money to buy a ticket to Brasilia

because you'll present a project to
I-don't-know-who from the government.

While you are indebted with half of the
world? I won't follow you in this one.

Sorry, but it's over.

I don't know If you left or
not, but I hope you won't leave

the country again until you
pay me all my money back.

We are fully available… And
then you get bored. Is over.

[ And please don't you dare answering
me with your manipulating emails. Pierri. ]

The thing I remember the
most is the death scene.

The scene?

- Yes. You see him fall at the act.
Like when Kennedy was shot.

Everyone saw it. Just like this time.

- He was shot.
- Yes.

And Peres?

Rabin was the bigger symbol.
Peres was just a companion.

Some sort of minion for Rabin.

- A what?
- A minion, a dependent.

- A minion.
- Minion.

What time does the plane leave?

7:30 p.m.

- There's time.
- Yes.

- You have to give me the Clonazepam.
- Yeah.

- No, but you're used to it.
- No, but...

- You should take it for long trips only.
- I really need it.

Doesn't Babi want to go back? No.

- Yes, she's dying to go.
- But...

- She's a bit old.
- You're going to have to put up with her.

- Yes.

And it's hard for her to walk.

- Well...
- And there's a lot of walking there.

She walked a lot when she
went, she's been everywhere.

You'll take her when you go.

Yes, I will. She'll walk slowly,
but she'll keep her promise to go back.

I hope some day I do too.

It's one thing to go as a tourist,
and another to live there.

It must be very different, right?

I couldn't control myself.

This is Jerusalem.

I managed to travel for free
through the Taglit program,

a Zionist organization that takes young
Jews to visit Israel for ten days.

After that you open your
ticket and travel anywhere.

My mother waived part of my debts

and I sold my annual tax billing to another
producer to be able to pay the rest.

Two sessions with a therapist,
that was probably from Mossad,

eight meetings to get to know my
travel partners and I was set.

A free trip thanks to
American billionaire jewish donators.

The front line was right in
front of me since I was 18,

but I couldn't see it because of
my anti-Zionist Jewish upbringing.

I got through those ten
days thanks to Iris,

a girl from my group with whom I
watched everynight Al Jazeera.

Another unjustified love.

But Iris would continue her trip to India.
And me to Lesbos, to the refugee crisis.

I would never see her again.

[ Dear Ivan, How nice to hear from you!

Regarding Lesbos,
I recommend you stay in

Skala Kallonis.
It's a bit far from the port,

but you'll be more comfortable.
Everyone stays there.

I've given your contact to Charlotte, from
BILD, for her to help you with the police.

Let me know if there's
anything I can help you with.

[ Greetings from Mexico,
Febbro The Correspondent. ]

That's the route a Syrian has to take from
their house ruins to his shelter.

[Port of Mitilene - Lesbos]

During summer,
thousand of refugees arrive, alive and

dead. But during winter,
the EU manages to escort them.

[Moria Camp - Lesbos]

During summer, the refugees
can't enter the migration center

for weeks. During winter,
the process lasts 2 to 5 days.

And there I was,

looking for information to write
a good column about Lesbos,

not knowing how to drive, with no Whatsapp,

and ashamed to ask for help to the hundreds
of correspondents staying in my hotel.

[Port of Mitilene - Lesbos]

During summer,
the resale of tickets to Athens

costs more than 500 euros.
During winter, only 50.

After a few days,
I got the courage to send the first draft

I had written to Febbro The
Correspondent and my father.

It started like this:

“With over 2000 dead
migrants to this date,

Europe's borders are today
the deadliest in the world.

At the same time, Europe oscillates
between uncertain borders of its own:

values, humanism, solidarity, fear,
racism, political speculation

and that of the strong measures destined
to stop migrants from getting in

and forcing them back to their countries.

The Mediterranean Sea will continue
to be an opencast grave

and Europe will turn into
an entrenched Eden.”

That's Jerusalem.

After spending 30 days in
Lesbos I went back to Israel,

to the front line, before
taking my plane back home.

I had written two columns that
nobody wanted to publish.

And Febbro The Correspondent
never answered my emails.

That's Sderot,

an Israeli town half a mile
away from the Gaza Strip.

And this is my friend Erez,
a radical left wing israeli.

- They came from Argentina.
- It fell exactly on our camp.

- Where?
- This is our camp.

What fell? A Kass?

It fell on your camp?

We built it all… But never mind…

What did you build here?

- Ah, you built a table, chairs?
- Yes...

There is the valley.

Thank you…

Good bye!

Ha! He knows Hebrew…

He knows some words.

What?
He knows “Good Bye” and “Thank you”?

Yes, he is a jew that lives in Argentina.

- Ah! He is a jew?
- Yes.

- Is it good?
- Yes, of course.

That's Sderot Police Station,
where the police exhibits Hamas' missiles,

trying to show their destruction
power at Israeli ground.

It's one of the favourite destinations
for NATO embassies agents.

[ Ivanchi,
I read the three articles from Lesbos.

Who are you sending this to?
Just say the word and I'll help you.

I can rewrite them if
you need me to. They

are well written,
but they're a bit arrogant

and you're missing information.
Let me know. Good luck, little dude, Dad.

[ PS: Remember of Hosni If you go to
Ramallah. And give him my book. ]

- If I may deduce a possible future...
- Yeah.

The occupation doesn't have
an end or final date.

As long as there's a Palestinian country,
the occupation will remain.

The only difference will
be that it's going to be a

country under occupation
and not a nation under it.

I'm afraid that's the only possibility
I see in the future.

That's Miki Kratsman's
studio in Tel Aviv.

From where he leads the
organization “Breaking The

Silence”, that gathers
former Israeli soldiers

repentant of the abuses
committed or witnessed

while serving in the
Palestinian Territories.

Every Thursday morning they take Israeli or
foreigners by the settlements,

showing the occupation.

I found them when the tour had finished.

[ Little dude, I'm reading what you write
and getting emotional. Motherfucker!

For that type of reports, we can think
about something like Playground for you.

Fast and effective info and ready.

Are you coming back for the elections?
According

to 4 pollsters,
Scioli wins in first-round.

Call your grandpas.
They'll be happy. The rage

because of your travel
to Israel is over.

[ Kisses, little dude, Daddy. ]

That's Ramallah's entrance,

Palestine's de facto
administrative capital.

I had run into the driver Ahmed
in downtown Jerusalem

and we crossed on his car Qalandiya's
checkpoint with great ease.

The first thing
I saw entering to Palestine

was a soldier pointing his gun at
a Palestinian kneeling on a berm.

That's Bethlehem, Palestine,

and 3 hours away from Ramallah.

Although when you see it in the
map it's only a few kilometers away,

the walls and the occupation
make it impossible to arrive faster.

Ahmed, the driver,
decided to change the route and

came in Jerusalem again,
to get out by the other side.

I never understood where we were.

Those five minutes in
Israeli ground were the

first for Nur, the
fixer, in fourteen years.

The euphoria took her to tears.

I couldnt enjoy the little adventure,
worried as I was for having hurried her.

[ Ivanchi, will you answer any whatsapp
message with more than monosyllables?

Could you meet Hosni?

I've re-read your notes on Lesbos.
Is too similar to a Febbro one.

You been sending that stuff to him?
What do I do If he asks? Strange... Daddy.

That's Hosni's office at the
Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

While we talked,

all I could think of
was that I had been in

Palestine for 2 days and
nothing had happened.

Absolutely nothing.

That's Jerusalem Gate,
in the middle of Palestine.

I was said Israeli soldiers arrived there
every afternoon, for weeks.

To evict the Palestinians
who had settled down

when they found settlers
measuring the land for a new settlement.

In only five days, I could relate
to two different groups of kids,

Israelis and Palestinians, on either side.

I could never relate to someone
less than 10 years old

But we were the same.

Talking as equals.

We all were politized and
brainwashed young guys.

Although they didn't know
that I was...

...jewish.

(Watch out. Not yet...)

Finally...

The soldiers arrived...

This was the front.

This was the frontline.

The soldiers were ready to evict
the Palestinians and ourselves.

This is what my father calls
"the geopolitical boiler of the World".

We were scared.

For Nur and Ahmed,
this was common.

We didn't understand if we were in shock
for the Palestinian cause,

or for the way of life in
the other side of the world,

and being inside the news
we read in the newspapers.

When we realized this was not news,
but the everyday life,

We left.

Let's go to Lebanon.

No.

Libya.

We'll stay here.

Kazakhstan?

It has nothing to do with this.

Mmm... Qatar?

No, we'll stay here.

Nigeria?

Will your mum pay for it?

Venezuela?

Mmm... No.

Then we should just go back.

No, please.
No.

Russia?
Let's go to Russia!

Are you insane?
What for?

Well, if you don't want to
go back, we'll stay.

[ Someday we would reach the Moon. ]

Well...

Is obvious this is not the Moon.

It's the Dead Sea.

Not in Israel, nor in Palestine.

It is believed that here a Kingdom ended

and an Empire began.

And that is not a journalist.

Neither a director.

It's an actor.