Original subtitles

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 a long time since I swam there.

I don't know where they are.

It's 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 my family's women.

These images of childhood

conceal the reality of a place

that may disappear any day now.

These images are my memory's treasure.

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, my life?'

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 payed 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.