All language subtitles for Bye.Bye.Tiberias.2023.1080p.OSN.WEB-DL.AAC2.0.H.264-POWER

Behind those mountains,
it's Lebanon.

Look, behind this mountain
is the Syria-Lebanon border.

Syria is right there.

And that's the border
between Palestine and Jordan.

Look, Lina, Lake Tiberias.

I want to go down there.

As a child, my mother took
me swimming in this lake.

As if to bathe me in her story.

I was born far from this land

and far from this lake.

It's been a long time
since I swam there.

I don't know where they are.

It's been years since
I got those things out.

You never showed
me these photos.

Is that you?

My first photo!

I think I was 13.

- This photo drove me crazy.
- Why?

I don't know. Look at
the sadness in my eyes.

This is Nemat.

My mother, look.

See how beautiful she is?

When I was young, her hair was like
that and she dressed very smartly.

This is Um Ali.

My grandmother.

I look like her, see.

Here. Don't you agree?

Lina...

The first time I took
you to Deir Hanna.

You see?

You as a baby with your
great-grandmother Um Ali.

This is me and
this is my mother.

So, who do I look like?

No one!

Is it my first photo there?

Yes, on the balcony.

What are those notebooks?

The notebooks...

They're poems. I wrote
poems when I was young.

Between the ages of 14 and
19, I was quite a poet.

Can you read me one?

It's a real poem.

Lead the herd to the meadow

Go towards the
greenery of the plain

The dawn enhances your eyes

With phantoms of dancing light

Your hair undulates

to the rhythm of the breeze

Oh, brunette

Oh, forest song

Dreams of pasture

Oh, brunette

Oh, forest song

Oh, forest song

Oh, forest song

It's these words,

this literature,
this language...

I wish you could
know this language.

I can speak it, but not read it.

It's never too late.

- But I know it. I just can't write it.
- It enriches you.

Mastering a language and
appreciating it this much

really enriches you.

Lina!

Look at me.

Tell me to stop.

Lina, say, "Stop, mama."

Go on, say it.

Stop, mama.

I was born in Paris.

My mother passed on to
me half her language.

A fragment of her mother tongue.

When I was little,

we'd spend summer in
her Palestinian village,

Deir Hanna.

She left the
village 30 years ago

to follow her dream of
becoming an actress.

She never spoke
about her departure.

When I ask about it, she says,

"Don't open the gate
to past sorrows."

Her grandmother Um Ali and her
mother Nemat would say that

when she asked about their past.

I'm the first woman in my family born
far from this Palestinian village.

Raise your voice, Deir Hanna!

God is our protector!

Raise your voice!

God is our protector!

All of you walk ahead of me!

- Let Great-Grandma Um Ali tickle you.
- Give me your hand.

Play with her.

Play with me instead.

- Come to Grandma Nemat.
- Go on.

Come play with Grandma Nemat.

I'll give you some chewing-gum.

Old lady, old fairy,

give me the jug of oil

so I can fry the omelette.

One...

Two...

Three...

Four...

Five.

- Want the chick or the hen?
- The hen!

My chewing-gum?

Again. You do it
to me this time.

Images of the past overlap
those of the present.

By filming me,

my father placed me in the story
of the women in my family...

These images of childhood

conceal the reality of a place

that may disappear any day now.

These images are my
memory's treasure.

I don't want them to fade.

I know that they too
might sink into oblivion.

We'll put Um Ali here.

Um Ali in the middle?

Yes.

Nemat here.

Nemat...

Hiam, here...

And this is 1948.

Exile.

My grandparents.

This photo was always
on the wall at home.

Now them and their children.
We can put them here.

It's a beautiful photo.

It was before they
had to leave Tiberias.

- Stick it here.
- Alright.

Why don't you do the sticking?
My fingers are starting to hurt.

There.

This is the four of us.

The four generations.

I wrote a text about
the women in my family.

A story of vanished places
and scattered memories.

The story of my
great-grandmother,

my grandmother,

my mother and her aunt.

Women who learned to leave
everything and start anew.

"Um Ali, my
great-grandmother..."

Your great-grandmother.

"is the first woman
of this line."

"The one who haunts my memory"

"and the one with
whom it all began."

"I don't know much about her."

"I know that when she was 15,
she married Hosni Tabari,"

"who bears the name of
their birthplace, Tiberias,"

"Tabarya in Arabic,"

"the capital of Galilee."

"It was on the waters
of Lake Tiberias"

"that Jesus walked."

"When I was little,"

"I was convinced that I
was a descendant of Jesus"

"and that my family was holy."

Did you really
believe that, Lina?

Yes.

"I can't imagine Um
Ali as a young girl."

"For me, she only began
to exist in 1948,"

"when the war broke out"

"and she, Hosni her
husband, and their children"

"were driven out of Tiberias"

"and propelled into history."

"I see them, wandering
from village to village"

"in search of refuge."

"At the border with Lebanon,"

"they stopped."

"There, Um Ali heard that her
eldest daughter, Hosnieh,"

"was already on the
other side, in Syria."

"Um Ali wanted to follow her,"

"but her husband refused."

"I imagine him saying,"

"I'll never leave this country."

"The family was exhausted."

"They slept out, under
the olive trees."

"I hear Um Ali's muffled
sobs on this moonless night."

"The next morning,"

"the family turned back."

"With a heavy heart,"

"Um Ali thought of her
daughter lost in Syria."

"Hosni, her husband,
wanted to go home"

"to return to his house,
his life as a farmer,"

"and the lake."

"He didn't yet know the Israeli
forces had taken Tiberias"

"and that he had
lost everything."

"The family found refuge in
a small Palestinian village"

"just 30 km from Tiberias,"

"inside the borders"

"of the new Israeli state."

"Hosni was inconsolable."

"Day and night, he hailed
passers-by along the road."

"'Have you seen my cows?"

"Have you seen my donkey?"

"Until this very day, I hear the
echo of this question to the world."

"Have you seen my cows,"

"my donkey?"

"Hosni lost his mind
and died of grief."

"Um Ali found herself alone."

"She had eight children"

"and a sewing machine
to support them."

Um Ali died when I was 10.

Her death deeply
affected my mother.

She wrote a poem about it.

On our last trip to Deir Hanna,

I asked her to read
it to her mother.

For the first time, I saw them

return to the traces of
the past in front of me.

I wrote this long
ago. Listen to it.

I hope you'll be a
better poet one day.

Inch'Allah.

I'm getting there.

"She was the most beautiful
woman in the world,"

"despite her age."

"In the lines of her face"

"and behind her deep wrinkles,"

"her story lay hidden."

"Her voice was a sweet lullaby"

"that lulled babies to sleep."

"I would put my
head on her chest"

"so she could stroke my hair"

"with her soft,
comforting hand."

"While I could have stayed
asleep forever on her shoulder,"

"I was always more eager to
stay awake and hear her story."

"One day, she told me..."

Your grandmother, right?

"I have never known
happier times"

"than those I
lived in Tiberias."

"It has been fifty years
since I last set foot there."

"Since then, life has changed,"

"not only in Tiberias, but everywhere
in this part of the world."

"The British ordered
us to leave our homes,"

"saying the Jewish troops had
declared war on the Palestinians."

"I am going to die soon."

"You'll bury my body
with my history,"

"my prayers and my memories."

The mosque was in
front of the hotel.

So your house was
behind the mosque?

Opposite, but further down.

But there's nothing
left of it now.

It was an old building.

They demolished it.

I don't want to bother you.

It's alright, my darling.

Getting you back
up will be harder.

I want to take you to the
lake, so we can see it.

I'm prettier than you two!

I'm the prettiest
in the Middle East!

No, I'm the prettiest.
Take off your lipstick.

I look like Miss Universe.

Don't film our feet.
I'm wearing slippers.

My shoes are the most beautiful.

The only ones born in this
house are Jallal and Hanan.

So you had Omaya,
Buthayna, Johayna,

Diana, Hiam, Wafa,

Naief and Zahera.

Eight of us were
born in the old house

where we had only one
room and a kitchen.

You and Dad slept
in a bed this big

and we slept on mattresses
around your bed.

There was a row of mattresses
in front of the bed.

How did you ever do it? And
where? I need to understand.

In silent mode!

Wait!

Let me turn that question
around to my children.

Did you ever notice your mother
and your father kicking each other?

Kicking each other!

My mother says my
father wrote this.

The second poem is
Hope and Promises,

written on May 13, 1954.

I'd begun reading it to you.

Listen, mother.

Never think I'll ever betray you

Even if I know only
suffering and madness,

I'll always be yours

You are the light of my eyes

Stop!

My heart flies towards
you, full of joy

My body reaches for you

Wow!

I don't know why...

But I know I'll never forget

The kisses from her lips

That isn't about me!

Dad loved someone else maybe?

You would kiss on the
lips behind our backs!

Wait.

- Your mother was pure.
- It's ok, you were married!

Your mother held onto her
honour until her wedding day.

- Why are you saying that?
- To reassure you.

But your ten children didn't
appear out of thin air!

All legitimate!

What a handsome young man!

"I wish you were here with us."

I wish I was too.

Hopefully, I'll come
to see you soon.

"How long?"

When I finish working.

In a month or two.

"I mean how long will you stay?"

That will depend on my work.

"Stay a long time."

You want me to stay a long time?

I'll stay a long
time, inch'Allah.

Bye now, my dear.

What's wrong?

Don't cry. I call
to make you happy.

"These are tears of joy. My
heart is dancing inside."

I'm sure it is.

Ok, my sweet, I'll call you
tomorrow. We talk every day.

"I'm asking you all..."

"Don't abandon me."

- "Let's make the most of each other."
- Of course, Mum.

I'll never abandon you.
You think I'll forget you?

I'm a bit far away from you.

I have to get organized
to come to see you.

Bye, mother dear.

"You're all in my
heart forever."

And you're in ours, forever.

Bye now, dear.

"Goodbye."

"Kiss everyone for me."

I will.

The last time I saw my grandmother
in Deir Hanna, she confided in me.

She said her greatest
source of pride

was to have kept on teaching
while raising her ten children.

Shall I go on?

Can you move on to the story
of Grandma Nemat, your mother?

Yes.

"Nemat."

"I've always felt
intimidated by Nemat."

"She has a natural authority."

"She has a strict gaze and
is always very organized."

"My grandmother looks
just like a teacher."

"I see her at least once a year
during the summer holidays."

"She treats me to delicious
fried eggplant with garlic"

"and all the stories
she tells me."

"Nemat was born in Tiberias."

"She was Um Ali and
Hosni's second daughter."

"She was a hardworking
and gifted student."

"After primary school,"

"her teacher encouraged
her to keep on studying."

"That was unusual"

"for the daughter of a
farmer and a seamstress."

"And so, at 13,"

"Nemat joined the prestigious
"School for Teachers" in Jerusalem,"

"Dar el Mo'alimat, a
school run by nuns."

"This school selected the best
female students in Palestine."

"I never thought to ask what
dress she wore for her first day,"

"or what her favourite
subjects were."

"What I do know
is that in 1948,"

"just a few months before her
graduation, war broke out."

"She was 16."

"All her dreams came to an end."

"The British army took
her back to Tiberias."

"As soon as she joined her family,
they were driven out of the city."

"Nemat didn't know then that
everything had changed forever."

"She would never see her
childhood home again."

"Despite being hounded by fate,
Nemat held on to her dream."

"She managed to
become a teacher."

You know, my mother always
taught me to forgive.

She always insisted

in our upbringing

on teaching us how
to forgive others.

Today, I wish I could
ask my mother...

if she forgives me
for making a choice

that was contrary to her
traditions and her life.

The letters that we sent her

when we were travelling.

She kept them here.

More photos.

Her watch.

I'll take these.

I don't know whose they are.

I'll take them anyway. I
think they were my mother's.

Alright...

Nothing left.

Mum...

What will happen to the house?

It's been sold.

That's sad.

We could have kept it.

This house has no meaning
without my mother.

I'm going around in circles
in a place without a soul.

It's hard for me to be here

as I didn't see her
when she passed away.

How old was I when you
first brought me here?

You were 18 months old when
I first brought you here.

I wanted you to meet my mother.

Why didn't Grandma Nemat come
to Paris when I was born?

Before you were born, I had
decided not to come back here.

I had severed all
ties with my family.

But when you were born,

you were like an angel
that reconciled us.

When I came back with you,

no one mentioned what
had happened before.

Is there any more eggplant?

Yes, sweetheart.

Is that why you took me?

To reconcile with them?

No, Lina.

It felt too hard
to become a mother

in exile in Paris,
without my mother.

Remember, at the time, I didn't
speak French, only Arabic,

and all my memories
came from Palestine.

Do you think I was
wrong to bring you here?

No, you were right.

My God, Lina!

Sales on winter clothing
and the new collection!

Up to 30% off!

Clothing for
children and adults!

You can't see a thing now!

What's up there?
A military base?

Here, you hear a lot of planes

that keep flying
around. There are loads

of Israeli military
bases all around us.

What you see up there is
what we call a colony,

but it's actually
a small village

that was built recently.

After confiscating our lands,

they built a lot of
villages like that

all around the
Palestinian villages,

on top of the mountains.
Always on top...

The highest land belongs to
small new Israeli villages.

What are you looking for?

A letter I wrote to my parents to
explain why I left the country.

These are my letters.

You wrote to say why you left?

The first time, yes. Then I
kept on writing from abroad.

Do you remember what you
wrote in that letter?

About why you left this place?

Not really. That's why
I'm looking for it.

I think I told them, "I'm
suffocating, I can't live here.

I need to breathe, I
need to find myself."

Arabic calligraphy.

I thought my dad liked
Arabic calligraphy.

You're not sure?

No idea.

What's this?

- What is it?
- A letter...

What is it?

A letter from Michael's
father to my parents.

Michael, my first
husband, the English guy.

What does it say?

"Dear Mum and Dad, I
have arrived safely."

"I'm staying with
Michael's parents"

"while he's in London
looking for work."

"He hasn't had any
positive responses yet"

"concerning a job."

You were very young. You
had just married him, right?

I was 23. No, 24.

That's funny.

How are you feeling?

I'm happy to be with
my family but...

I think I need to mourn,

but I don't know how to do that.

I don't know how to
grieve for a mother.

I think we know how
to become mothers,

but never know how to
separate from a mother.

I often look at the
photo of my young mother.

I look in vain, in her eyes,

for the girl she once was.

She wasn't like me at that age.

She didn't have curly hair.

She had straight black hair,

with an ardent gaze,
focused on the distance.

As if she were already far away.

My mother was born at a time when
the word Palestine was banned.

Deir Hanna, her village in Galilee,
was under Israeli army control.

There were no
theatres or cinemas.

She told me she
would get up at night

to write as an escape.

As her brothers
and sisters slept,

lit by a small lamp, she
would write in her notebooks

her secrets and
her wildest dreams.

When she was 14, she wrote,

I look around me at my mother,
father, sisters and brothers.

Why do I feel so lonely?

Maybe one day I'll be
able to cross the border.

That's what I hope for.

We used to live on that street.

On the left.

- Where's your school?
- It's further up.

Nearly there.

- Did you go on foot?
- By bus.

We used to walk back
as it was downhill.

- Bus number 12.
- Walking up was tough.

There weren't so many buildings.
None of this was there.

There were just those three!

- We should have gone that way.
- No, this is good.

Mum, how long did you study
photography here in Haifa?

- Three years.
- Four.

- You, three?
- Yes.

It's like going back to school.

It's been so long.

The entrance hasn't changed.

The building is the same.

My classes were upstairs.

Mine on the middle floor.

Hear the planes? It's non-stop.

Let's go! Action.

Are you ready?

Hello.

- How are you?
- Welcome.

Do you know anything
about photography?

- No.
- No?

My dad had a camera.

I would take photos when
we went on school trips.

But I don't know photography.

How will you study photography
if you know nothing about it?

If I get in, I'll learn
about it by studying.

You have to accept
me at the school.

Because, between you and me...

- Wait a second.
- Please, let me explain.

My parents want me to
study law or medicine

because I'm good at school.

But I don't want to be
a lawyer or a doctor.

Studying law or medicine
would be like dying for me.

I don't want that life.

If I study photography, I could
find something that I like.

Please!

Don't worry, kid.

We'll gladly accept you here.

We'll be proud of
you and your sister.

If I could, I'd kiss you.

I don't mind if you do.

- Welcome, kid.
- Thank you.

You see, I've always
liked acting too,

but you got ahead of me and
didn't give me a chance.

- Me?
- Yes.

Was I so unfair to you, Diana?

You went to Hollywood alone. You
could have taken me with you.

Hello.

Hello, Lina!

- Sweetheart!
- It's been ages!

Where were you hiding?

Where have you come from, dear?

Did you talk about love
together when you were younger?

Love for men or our
love for each other?

Love for men!

Love for young men?

Unless you prefer women

and never told us!

Your mother loved the most!

The question isn't clear.

Why me?

- Count!
- I have to count?

- Your mum was a Don Juan!
- She loved the most.

- Your mother!
- A different guy every day!

- Really?
- Yes.

Did I ever tell you
about when I told Dad

about my first boyfriend?

I came home. I remember
I was on the balcony.

Each time I needed to speak to
Dad, I did it on the balcony.

While he stared at the view.

I told him, "Dad, I have to tell
you before you hear it from others."

I'm in love with a man.
He's from the village.

"We're in a relationship."

He asked, "What do you mean?"

I replied,

"I see him, I sleep at his
place, we go out for dinner..."

I swear.

He gave me a dark
look, then asked,

"Should I meet his father
to get you engaged?"

You can't ask for a
more tolerant father!

You know what my attitude
was like at the time.

I told him, "There's no need."

"We don't plan to get
engaged or married."

"We just want to date!"

They just wanted to date!

He looked at me and said,
"Get out of my sight!"

"Forget about Haifa."

"Forget about your studies. You
stay at home to help your mother!"

I remember that!

He forbade you to
go back to Haifa.

And all the sisters who came
after you had to stay home too.

We all paid for your misdeeds!

I found a Super 8 film of
my Aunt Buthayna's wedding.

All the family weddings
were held in the village.

In these images,
my mother was 21.

She photographed
the bride and groom.

She was Deir Hanna's official
wedding photographer.

We see her dancing
with her sisters.

They look so happy.

It was two years
before she left.

At the time, my mother
lived in Jerusalem.

She was acting in secret
with the Hakawati Theatre.

Her four older sisters
were all married.

So it was the turn of Hiam,

the fifth daughter.

I couldn't find
videos of her wedding.

Her father refused to
hold it in the village.

My homeland, my homeland!

To you, my love and my heart!

My homeland, my homeland!

I'd never seen my grandfather
dancing and smiling before.

Every village wedding
ended with patriotic songs.

My Aunt Buthayna's
husband is very patriotic.

His family were also
refugees in Deir Hanna.

They came from a
village called Chajara,

from which they were
driven out in 1948.

Chajara was located
14 km from Tiberias.

The village is now destroyed.

What's that there?

- That's Solomon's cave.
- And above it?

Those are the walls of Jerusalem.
You can walk along them.

Look, the walls
start over there.

- You never went?
- Up there? No.

Did you?

No, but those who
have gone say that...

- It's really special.
- Yes.

It's very beautiful.

I'll take you for
your 70th birthday.

Hello.

- Welcome.
- How are you?

- I know this man.
- It's Amer.

What's new?

This is my sister, Buthayna.

Do you remember her?

- I used to live in Jerusalem.
- In Cheikh Jarrah.

Do you remember Amer?

- A little.
- We were younger.

Much younger!

- How are you?
- I'm well, and you?

The old days.

Souvenirs of the Hakawati Theatre.
Hiam got married here in the theatre.

On the earth floor.

I wore the costumes

from Jackie's play.
I had a big hat.

We didn't have the
wooden floor yet.

Can you show me how
you told your dad?

Yes.

Amer, can you join
my mother on stage?

It's your turn, Amer.

Why not?

I love someone. He's English.

But he converted to Islam and I
want to share my life with him.

I want to marry him,
with your agreement.

I could have married
him in secret abroad.

But as I love and respect you,

I want to do it here at
home, with your blessing.

Turn slightly to the camera.

So what did you do?

What are you after, Lina?

It was very hard for me.

I waited for him to come
back. I was worried about him.

My mother got angry and said,
"You'll kill your father!"

At the time, I was convinced

I wasn't doing anything wrong.

When my dad came back,

I apologized, but I told him,

"Sorry, but I'll marry this man,

even if it takes me five years,

I'll marry him, and
with your blessing."

He remained furious. And I left.

I stayed one night in the village
and went back to Jerusalem.

What happened after that?

I tried to think of other
ways to convince my father.

I thought of someone my
father knew and respected,

a professor at Bir
Zeit University

where Michael also taught.

Michael and I went to
his place in Ramallah.

Come on, Buthayna.

The role of the professor.

Professor Sharif. Hello.

Hello, dear.

He called me Hiam, not dear!

Start again.

Go back and do it again!

And when he finally said
yes, how did you feel?

He didn't say yes to me. He
said yes to Professor Sharif.

And Professor Sharif told me.

And my father said to my mother,

"Tell her to come and
sign the marriage papers."

What happened when you
and Michael got divorced?

I was in London. I
called my mother.

I told her I wanted to leave
Michael because we didn't get along.

She remained silent.

I told her,

to make her feel better,

"Don't worry about
me, Mum, I'm fine

and, hopefully, next time
I'll bring you a Muslim."

Who?

Who? Your father!

She divorced him too.

And they say things
come in threes.

I'd have loved to find
images of your wedding.

What are you saying? What for?

I got married, true, but only
to be able to live with a man.

It was the only way here.

If I'd had a choice,
I'd never have done it.

I'd never noticed your
discomfort in these images.

I was suffocating.

Everything suffocated me.

Even the people I
loved suffocated me.

Did you talk to your
sisters about it?

I don't feel my sisters and I
ever talked about my life choices.

You never spoke about
your work as an actress?

Only as a joke, to make fun.

Or to ask me, "Why
did you do that?"

Did your mother see
the movies you were in?

I think she only saw one.

She didn't like me
being an actress.

She'd say, "You prefer
your work to me."

I wonder who you would have
become if you'd stayed.

How could I know, Lina? I left.

Can I ask you one last question?

Yes.

How to be the great-granddaughter
of the family once the mother left?

Can you say that again?

What do you mean?

My mother chose to leave.

I was born of this
departure, of this fracture.

Between two worlds.

She tells me,

"When you fly away, it hurts

those you leave
and yourself too.

"There is always heartbreak."

I wonder if we can manage
to find ourselves fully

in a world we invented.

I think about Hosnieh,

my mother's aunt, my great-aunt,

who had no choice.

All her life,

she has lived in Syria,

separated from her mother, Um
Ali, and her sister, Nemat.

My mother tells me I met her,

but I've forgotten her face.

The sea is there.

Lebanon is there.

Syria is there.

And Jordan is there.

And here we are, in the middle.

Across these mountains,

in Syria,

Hosnieh is buried,

in Yarmouk,

the world's largest
Palestinian refugee camp.

The camp is now
completely destroyed.

In 1948,

Hosnieh ended up on the
other side of the border,

separated from her family.

Like all Palestinian refugees,

she was forbidden to
return to her homeland.

Moved from camp to camp,

she finally settled in
Yarmouk, south of Damascus.

I look for her in
this woman's face.

I imagine her, gathering news

of her mother and her sister.

Nothing but hazy
bits of information.

As for the rest,

she had to wait, hope

and build herself another life.

30 years after their separation,

one summer night,
Hosnieh managed to cross

the border from
Syria to Galilee.

In secret.

At the end of this journey,

she found her mother, Um
Ali, and her sister, Nemat.

They embraced for hours,

their bodies pressed
together like magnets.

After 30 years.

My grandmother told me so
much about this reunion

that I feel its intensity.

My mother was 18 when
she met this aunt

who had arrived from
a forbidden land.

This land was the Arab world.

A world that Hiam
had never seen.

Hosnieh told her about Damascus,

its smells, its colours,

its cafés, its women.

She gave her a taste of freedom.

Before leaving again,

Hosnieh told Hiam,

"I know one day you will come
knocking on my door in Syria."

Years later,

my mother was able to
visit her in Syria.

She was 43 years old

and had made the
trip from Paris.

I didn't think I could
ever set foot there.

I was able to go thanks
to my French passport.

I took a cab.

I explained where my aunt
lived and he drove me there.

We entered through the main
entrance of the Yarmouk camp.

We started asking

where to find Abu
Hasan Falafels.

People told me.

I arrived at the falafel place

and, some distance away,

I saw a woman sitting
outside her house.

She came towards
me as I went over.

At one point, we both
stopped like two bodies

who didn't know what to do.

We looked at each other.

And we ran towards each other.

She pressed against
me and went...

"The scent of the family!" We
were both crying our eyes out.

We were like two magnets.

What did she say
when she saw you?

She started smelling
me all over, saying,

"Let me smell the scent of
my mother, of my father,

of my brother, of my darlings."

She repeated the names of
everyone in the family.

Each of her kisses on my body
was for someone in the family.

We didn't want to
let go of each other.

We stayed clinging to each other,
with everyone staring at us.

She told them, "This is
my niece from Palestine!

She brings the scent of my family.
She has brought Palestine here!"

That moment was

very intense emotionally,
both for her and for me.

How did it feel going
to an Arab country?

I felt I had won a battle.

Crossing the border
to go to Syria,

when that was forbidden,
was a victory for me.

It was a victory over
their interdictions.

It shattered the border
that Israel imposed

on Palestinians from
the same family.

It was like saying, "I did it!"

Deep down inside.

It's a world war.

We're still like kids.

Clean up, Hiam! What's
this sloppy work?

- Did your parents talk like that?
- Yes.

Too bad if we weren't
happy about it.

I'll do your room now, Lina.

Hello.

How are you?

It's years since we were
all together in this house.

You found the letters?

Zahera!

Let's sing for Zahera!

Mother, prepare the
finery for the bride to be

She left the house without
saying goodbye to her sisters

That's not Mum.

It is Mum!

Look how huge she was.

Look, it's Naief.

What are you doing, Lina?

Each choose a photo of yourself and
one of Tiberias to put on the wall.

- Where do you put them?
- On the wall.

Our grandmother lived
here in Tiberias,

near the mosque.

Nothing's left now.

She said their house
was near the mosque.

Where is it?

It was right next to the mosque.

Do we put up our grandparents?

Climb on the train!

1, 2, 3, 4, 5...

Get in!

All stand in profile.

Stand in profile and
look at the camera.

Can you see me?

The train toppled over!

Stand up straight, come on!

I can't go on. I'm suffocating!

Only the women!

Behind our smiles,

I know the fear that
sleeps within us.

What if the remains of this
place were to disappear?

I was born far from this lake,

yet I feel so close to it.

What are you thinking about?

- What?
- What are you thinking about?

I'm thinking about
this whole story.

I'm trying to imagine
how my grandparents,

my Grandma Um Ali and your
Grandma Nemat, as a young girl,

walked all the
way from Tiberias,

like that,

then up over those mountains,

because Lebanon is
over there, Lina.

They reached the very top.

All that way on foot.

And Syria is over there.

My Aunt Hosnieh was there.

And you left for France.

And I left for France.

And now, you're
sitting in Tiberias.

I'm sitting right where we came
when you were young, remember?

We'd come to swim here
too when we were little.