In a remarkable display of cinematic solidarity, the audience of the Sala Grande at Venice’s Palazzo del Cinema rose to their feet for a 25-minute standing ovation upon the conclusion of NAZA, the harrowing new documentary examining the Israeli military’s targeting systems. Yet this moment of international acclaim stands in stark contrast to the virulent backlash the film has provoked within Israel itself, where its directors face accusations of treason, death threats, and calls for their removal from the country.
The documentary, produced by The Guardian, derives its name from an Israeli military acronym historically used to denote civilian casualties anticipated in military operations. Through the testimonies of 24 anonymised Israeli soldiers and intelligence officers—many drawn from elite units—the film exposes a chilling apparatus of automated decision-making that determines which thousands should die in targeted strikes, often in the dead of night alongside loved ones. These participants, speaking exclusively in Hebrew, reveal a spectrum of emotions from shame and neutrality to excitement and justification for their participation in what they describe as a programme of mass killing where the distinction between combatant and civilian blurs beyond recognition.
The film’s allegations emerge against the backdrop of a conflict in which over 73,000 Palestinians have been killed, according to the documentary’s presentation. Its release coincides with Israel’s febrile election campaign, where attitudes toward the Gaza war dominate political discourse, and arrives at a time when the country’s relationship with critical media and dissenting voices has become increasingly strained since Hamas’s attack of 7 October 2023.
A Cinematic Revelation
NAZA unfolds through night-time footage captured across Tel Aviv, interwoven with confessions from current and former Israeli military personnel who describe sophisticated systems—some incorporating artificial intelligence—that select targets for elimination. The documentary’s power lies not merely in its exposure of military protocols, but in its intimate portrayal of the moral weight carried by those who operate within these systems.
One particularly striking sequence shows a soldier describing how they were “excited” by their role, finding “fun” in the act of selecting targets. Another recounts being “shamed” by their experience, suggesting an internal conflict that speaks to the psychological toll of participating in what many international bodies have characterised as disproportionate military action. The anonymity of the witnesses speaks to both their fear of reprisal and the sensitive nature of their disclosures.
The film’s 80-minute runtime traverses complex terrain, presenting not a single narrative but a chorus of voices that collectively paint a damning portrait of Israel’s military culture. These testimonies, given in Hebrew to preserve authenticity, create a sense of immediacy that transcends typical documentary conventions. The inclusion of footage from various Israeli military units suggests a systematic rather than isolated phenomenon, challenging any notion that such practices exist on the organisation’s periphery.
Backlash and Threats in the Homeland
While international film festivals and critics have hailed NAZA as a significant contribution to documentary cinema, its reception within Israel has been characteristically different. Right-wing political figures have swiftly condemned its directors—Oscar-winning Israeli filmmakers Yuval Abraham and Rachel Szor—as traitors, with some calling for violence against them.
Benjamin Netanyahu, Israel’s prime minister, has publicly declared his intention to pursue legislation that would strip citizenship from individuals who “smear” Israeli soldiers, directly referencing the documentary’s creators. At election rallies, figures like Ofer Winter, a former right-wing army officer turned politician, have taunted the directors, suggesting they have “nothing to return to” and accusing them of “spitting in the faces of your own people.”
The rhetoric has escalated beyond political discourse. Yehuda Schlesinger, a journalist with Channel 14—a network often viewed as aligned with Netanyahu—has called for Abraham and Szor to be “pursued” and “hunted,” prohibiting their return to Israel and characterising the Venice applause as “25 minutes of antisemitic applause.” Such language reflects a broader attempt to frame criticism of military practices as attacks on Jewish identity itself.
Protesters have taken these sentiments to the streets, with demonstrators outside Szor’s parents’ home in central Israel chanting for the “death penalty for traitors.” Human rights organisations, peace groups, and international press freedom advocates have rallied to defend the filmmakers, while Haaretz has warned that their lives are credibly endangered. The editorial response within Israeli media has been equally divided, with left-leaning publications condemning the backlash while right-wing outlets embrace it as a necessary defence of national honour.
Democratic Discourse Under Siege
The extreme reaction to NAZA reveals deeper currents within Israeli society, particularly concerning the space for criticism during times of conflict. Dahlia Scheindlin, an Israeli political and polling expert, notes that the right-wing is exploiting the film’s unavailability to Israeli audiences as a tool for electoral gain, creating a narrative that cannot be easily contested by domestic viewers.
“This discussion has been a million times more prominent than the UK sanctions announcement,” Scheindlin observes, highlighting how the controversy itself becomes more politically potent than the documentary’s actual content. The inability of Israelis to view the film independently allows opponents to construct their own version of events—one that frames the directors as traitors rather than journalists engaging in legitimate inquiry.
The incident also illuminates the transformation of Israel’s media landscape since 2023. Where once critical journalism might have prompted official inquiry or public debate, NAZA’s reception suggests a shift toward punitive measures against dissent. Etan Nechin of Haaretz argues that in a healthy democracy, such allegations would trigger widespread public outrage and state investigations. Instead, he writes, the directors have been “effectively pushed into exile,” their work silenced not by lack of merit but by systematic opposition.
The documentary’s timing—arriving during an election period marked by heightened tensions over Gaza policy—has amplified its political significance. Yet the response it has received extends beyond electoral calculations, touching on fundamental questions about Israel’s relationship with criticism, accountability, and democratic norms. As Nahum Barnea of Yedioth Ahronoth describes the calls to revoke citizenship as “delusional,” and Yaakov Katz of the Jerusalem Post warns that such measures create the impression Israel has “something to hide,” their perspectives suggest that the backlash may ultimately damage rather than strengthen the nation’s international standing.
The film industry’s support for Abraham and Szor—including praise from prominent directors and critics worldwide—further complicates the narrative being constructed within Israel. Their work joins a growing catalogue of international productions examining Israeli military practices, from Alex Gibney’s controversial series on the occupation to numerous documentaries addressing settlement expansion. What distinguishes NAZA is perhaps its exclusive focus on internal Israeli perspectives, making the backlash against its creators all the more telling.
Why it Matters
The NAZA controversy represents a critical juncture in Israel’s democratic development, exposing tensions between free speech, military accountability, and national security that resonate far beyond the country’s borders. As democratic societies worldwide grapple with how to balance security concerns against transparency and criticism, Israel’s treatment of its own filmmakers serves as a cautionary tale. The documentary’s reception suggests that when governments conflate criticism with treason, and when political expediency overrides journalistic freedom, the foundations of democratic discourse begin to erode. For international observers, the film offers an unprecedented window into the psychological and operational realities of modern warfare, while simultaneously demonstrating how states may weaponise controversy to suppress uncomfortable truths. The stakes extend beyond this single production: they encompass the very possibility of critical examination in societies emerging from conflict, and the responsibility of international communities to defend those who risk everything to tell important stories.
